


Keep Cold

by Liu



Category: The Flash (Comics), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Warlocks, comicverse combined with CW-verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 74,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barry is promised to the warlock Cold as payment for saving his mother. </p>
<p>[inspired by Beauty and the Beast fairy-tale]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally planned to only post this on AO3 after finishing the whole fic, but I've got enough planned out now to believe that I will finish it, and it was suggested to me that I should post it, so... here we go :)
> 
> The title comes from Robert Frost's poem "Good-Bye, And Keep Cold".
> 
> Edit: Now with awesome [title art](http://wachey.deviantart.com/art/Keep-Cold-Title-Image-606262316) by wacheypena! <3

Their carriage clattered down the beaten path through the night. These woods were never ones for a pleasant stroll, even during the day – even less so when there was only a small lantern illuminating the path. The trees were old and the air, stale and thick, made breathing difficult even for a healthy person. Henry was not sure if he could truly hear his wife’s ragged breaths from the back of the carriage or if he was just imagining things because he _knew_ how sick she was, but every second they were on the road clenched his chest with worry. There had not been many times in his life when he did not know what to do, but this was one of them. He needed to get Nora back home as soon as possible: the fever struck fast and she was not doing well, trying to fight the disease. The hot, humid air did nothing to help cool down her overheating body, and the stories that were whispered in the safety of one’s home about these woods did not inspire confidence in Henry’s heart. Maybe he had been foolish to take the shortcut through the forest – but with Nora’s worsening state and the nearest establishments far behind them, they did not have the time for the three days’ trip around the woods to their home. _She_ did not have that kind of time, and Henry, otherwise used to dealing with sickness as a doctor, felt helpless in the face of a decision to continue and hope she would hold on, or stop (again) to try and ease her suffering a little bit.

 

But for that, he needed water, and there was no stream, no river running through these woods.

 

The horse stopped so fast that Henry was nearly thrown off his seat – the animal neighed, upset, and tried to back away all of a sudden. Henry hopped off the carriage to try and calm the animal, but in just a moment it became apparent the horse wouldn’t go further. Anxious, Henry looked around, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark without the lantern close to his face, he could see another light among the trees.

 

Disregarding the tales about evil spirits in the woods, trying to lure travelers in with their witchlight, Henry slung his doctor’s bag over his shoulder and gathered his unconscious wife in his arms, resolutely walking towards the glow. Maybe some old hermit made a home in the middle of nowhere, and he would be willing to help, provide the water that Nora needed the most now.

 

Every step was difficult, the roots making him stumble and the dirt of the path sliding under Henry’s feet, but he soldiered on until he could make out the source of the light. It wasn’t so much a light as a glow, really: emerging from among the gnarled trees like an island from the ocean, a garden shone with pale bluish aura. When Henry tore through the spiky shrubs bordering the garden, he realized what caused the glow: the flowers, the rose bushes, even the trees and the fruit on them, they were all made of ice.

 

He did not waste time to wonder how such a garden came to be in the middle of nowhere: ice could be melted for Nora to drink, and it could help her body cool down, and that was all that mattered to Henry right now. He knelt on the ground, frosty and hard but not iced itself, and lowered Nora from his arms, letting her back rest against his chest. She was sweating hard, mumbling in her restless sleep, her breaths short and labored even in the fresh air of the garden. With a prayer to gods that it would work, Henry reached for the nearest bush and broke off the first crystalline rose he could reach.

 

A howl echoed through the garden and Henry’s fingers burned with the cold – he hissed and dropped the flower, and when he looked up to locate the source of the sound, he noticed an outline of a house: a manor, really, silhouetted against the darkness of the forest, which he had not seen before.

 

And from the house, a figure pulled away, dark cloak billowing around their feet – it approached so fast Henry did not even have the time to get up: he just pulled Nora closer to his chest and prayed again, prayed that whoever it was, he or she could offer some help.

 

“Who dares step on my property?!” a voice asked, deep and frosty like the garden itself. Henry shivered – he knew who the figure was as the glow of the ice trees illuminated the man and his dark blue cloak, the hood disguising his face trimmed with white fur. He was Cold, the dreaded warlock people in the city whispered about.

  
“Please,” Henry said when the warlock raised his hand, no doubt to strike them both. He could not let go without a fight, for the sake of his family. “My wife is sick. I meant no harm – but she needs help. Please.”

 

The hand hovered in mid-air, and Henry expected a snarl, a blast of ice coming towards them – but the warlock did not move.

  
“Please,” Henry repeated. “She just needs some water, I have to get her fever down or she will die. She’s a mother… please, don’t let her die.”

 

He did not expect compassion, even if he hoped for it: in the end, the warlock dropped his hand and Henry could only assume he was looking at them, because he could not see a face through the hood.

 

“It is not your wife’s fault that you chose to trespass in my gardens,” the warlock said, his voice like icicles ringing in the wind, a strange, inhuman pitch. “Bring her in. I will help you – for a price.”

  
“Anything,” Henry exhaled in relief and, clutching his wife to his chest, followed the hooded warlock inside.

 

...

 

It took four days for Nora to get better. She struggled through the fever, even with a bed to rest in and water to drink, and all the herbs Henry had with him to aid the healing. That first night, the warlock led them to a room, and after that, Henry did not see him at all. Three times a day, a knock sounded on the door and a tray with fruit, bread and steaming soup would be left in front of the room, sometimes accompanied by meats or cheese, simple food that was rich in flavor and made Henry eat, even if his stomach was in knots over his wife’s health.

 

When Nora finally opened her eyes, her fever broken and her skin regaining at least some color, Henry decided it was time to leave: as there was no sign of the warlock, he gathered all their things and helped Nora get up, wondering how they were going to get back home when their horse had been left in the woods, no doubt far away or attacked by wild animals by now.

 

The warlock appeared before them as they stepped out of their room.

 

“Your horse and carriage are ready,” he said, to Henry’s great surprise: he had not expected someone of Cold’s reputation for ruthlessness and calculation to take care of the animal.

  
As he was about to thank the warlock, the frosty voice sounded again:

 

“Do not forget the payment you promised for my help, Henry Allen. You have a month to send me the most precious thing you will find in your home when you return.”

 

He did not need to add ‘or I will come for you’ – Henry knew the tales of the warlock Cold and what he had done to people: he had been called to a frostbitten arm or leg more than once while he still lived in the city, back before they decided to take a cottage away from the bustle and dusty air of the city for Nora’s sake. And the frostbitten people - those had been the lucky ones.

 

The horse seemed well-fed and rested, neighing impatiently as they got to the carriage – the animal was just as happy to leave the ghastly place behind as Henry was. They even found a basket with food in the carriage, making the day and the night they still needed to reach home easier. The whole time, Henry kept wondering what he could send to the warlock that would be considered sufficient payment: he was a doctor and Nora had been a noblewoman once, before she chose to marry him, but of the jewelry she had left, there was no single significantly expensive piece. The warlock’s request was strange in itself – Henry wondered why he had not asked for a sum, or a specific value. Instead, he requested the ‘most precious thing’ – it did not make sense.

 

As they approached their cottage, a sense of relief crept through Henry, and he smiled down at his wife.

 

The door to their little house opened and Henry’s heart stopped for a moment as he saw who came running to them, a big smile on his face, still barely more than a boy in Henry’s eyes.

  
“Father! Mother!” Barry called, stumbling a little as he ran to them, but he laughed and continued forward even when Henry halted the horse and looked at his wife in horror. Barry was not supposed to come home for at least two more weeks: he must have finished his exams at the university early, wanting to spend more time with his parents.

 

The most precious thing they would find upon their return.

 

The damned warlock had known what he had been asking.

 

...

 

Barry swallowed as he raised his hand to knock against the thick wood of the dark manor’s gate. It had been so much easier to be brave back in his parents’ cottage, to sneak out before his parents could stop him from giving in to the warlock’s demand. Barry refused to wait around to see what wrath Cold would bring down on his family: the warlock had helped save his mother’s life, but that did not mean he would spare them if angered. Everyone knew how warlocks operated – creatures with strange powers and no conscience, with too much greed and too little heart. If Barry was what Cold wanted, be it for some awful blood ritual or as a slave, he would do it, so that his parents could live in peace.

 

It became apparent after a few moments and several more knocks that nobody was going to answer the door. Barry tried pushing: the hinges were surprisingly soundless as the gate swung open with ease, and Barry found himself in an entrance hall that was nowhere near as huge or sinister as he’d expected. It was just… a hall, really, with a grand staircase and several candles sparsely illuminating the way. White marble shot with flecks of gray was laid in intricate designs on the floor, and Barry had to squint at it for a while in curiosity to reveal the pattern as snowflakes. Most of the light seemed to come from the door at the end of the hall – soft clinking in the distance indicated that someone was in the middle of dinner there.

 

Steeling himself with one last breath, Barry pushed the door open, hoping the warlock wouldn’t kill him right away.

 

There was no warlock, though. The dining room held a beautifully carved mahogany table for maybe a dozen people at most, and the walls held grand paintings in golden frames, but there was no one, save for a servant taking the plates off the empty table. Someone must have dined here, because the plates were full of crumbs and a napkin lay used on the table, but the warlock was nowhere in sight.

  
“Um… hi?” Barry said, and the plate clattered to the table loudly, the servant looking up with a startled expression that soon turned into a scowl.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he huffed: he looked older than Barry, wearing a pale blue linen shirt, practical (if worn-out) leather pants and simple boots. Barry offered him a smile: it didn’t seem to take all that well.

 

“I’m Barry Allen. I was supposed to come here as… um. Payment?” Barry said quickly, so the guy wouldn’t think Barry was there to rob the warlock’s place. Nobody would probably be that stupid, but it was better to make sure before the guy attacked him – he looked about ready to do just that.

  
“What?” the servant frowned deeper and Barry sighed.

 

“The warlock helped my parents a few weeks back… you probably saw them when they were here, right?” Barry asked, then looked around and stared at the servant in worry as something occurred to him:

 

“This IS the warlock’s castle, right? Warlock Cold?”

 

Understanding seemed to dawn on the servant’s face and his scowl eased up for a moment.

 

“The doctor,” he muttered, then raised an eyebrow: “So what did you bring? You can just leave it here and go. The warlock’s out tonight.”

 

Barry shuffled on his feet, clutching the strap of his bag for the need to do something with his hands. He didn’t _bring_ much, except a change of clothes (in case he wouldn’t be immediately killed upon arrival) – he really doubted a shirt or his thin cloak would make for sufficient gifts for the warlock.

 

“I…” he started, then bit his lip, wishing he was a better liar. If he’d known the warlock wouldn’t be home when he arrived, he could’ve planned better, could’ve tried to get out of this- no. It would just bring Cold’s wrath down on his parents’ heads, and that was exactly what Barry was trying to avoid by running from home in the middle of the night to go to this manor on his own.

  
“The warlock said I’m the payment. I don’t know what he wants with me, but… I don’t think I should leave without at least talking to him, you know?”

 

The servant’s face went through a series of grimaces, surprise, irritation, frustration, until it settled on a put-upon glare.

 

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t mention any kids to your father.”

 

“Look,” Barry huffed – he was NOT going to endanger his family because a servant turned him away. “He said ‘the most precious thing’, okay? My family’s not rich, but we love each other, so whatever… spell he needs me for, I’m here, and I’m not leaving before I see the warlock. You said he’s out, so I’ll just sit here and wait for him.”

 

He pulled the nearest chair away from the table and sat down, matching the servant’s glare with his own, even if he didn’t feel at all confident. He stared at the table – gold inlay formed tiny, precisely cut snowflakes in the wood, and Barry wondered if this warlock took himself too seriously or if he had a hidden sense of irony concerning his powers.

  
Probably the first. Barry hadn’t heard of too many warlocks with a sense of humor.

 

The servant heaved a sigh after a while and when Barry looked up, the man was shrugging:

  
“Alright. C’mon, I’ll show you a room where you can stay until he returns.”

 

“You sure…?” Barry muttered – he didn’t want to anger a warlock by sprawling around in his house without his knowledge. The servant shot him a pointed look.

  
“I doubt he’s got plans to sacrifice you on the altar of evil tonight,” he snorted and turned towards the door at the other end of the room, leaving Barry no choice but to follow him.

 

He was led upstairs through a surprisingly cozy kitchen and a wooden staircase that was less grandiose and definitely less scary than the one in the entrance hall, and then down corridors that were kind of chilly, but otherwise not unpleasant. Pale walls held slightly dusty candle holders (with snowflake-shaped decorations, what a surprise) and frost painted the large window-panes, letting in a soft glow from the outside which made Barry think back to his father’s descriptions of the beautiful ice garden. Maybe he would get to see it before the warlock did whatever he had planned for Barry.

 

It did not take as long as Barry expected to reach a door which the servant opened and stepped inside, motioning for Barry to follow. The room itself was large, but not obnoxiously so, and the decorations were more understated than opulent, speaking of a taste for quality rather than overt display of wealth. A wide four-poster bed with soft-looking pillows and a heavy comforter, a desk with a chair by the window, and two chests of drawers took up the majority of space. A medium-sized mirror hung on one wall, and a table stood close by with a large ceramic bowl and a pitcher. Whether the room was what the warlock ordered for Barry or the servant picked it himself because of some sympathy he did not show on the outside, Barry was grateful he did not have to put up with more snowflakes everywhere.

 

“Take your rest. The warlock won’t be back until morning, at least,” the servant said, startling Barry out of his thoughts. He turned and smiled at the man, nodding his thanks; when the servant turned to leave, though, Barry caught his arm before he knew what he was doing. Maybe it was just a sense of dread he could not shake completely, the desire of having another human being close stronger than his inhibitions.

 

The servant glanced coolly at Barry’s hand around his bicep and raised an eyebrow at Barry:

  
“Anything I can do for you, Mr. Allen?”

 

“Barry,” he corrected automatically, smiling again – he childishly, desperately wanted this man to like him, so he would have at least one ally in the house of a probably-crazy warlock. “I just… I wanted to ask. About the warlock, you know… how is he?”

 

“Scary,” the servant huffed and moved to leave again: Barry let him this time. “Good night… Barry.”

 

He was almost out of the door when Barry called out again.

  
“Hey!”

  
“Yes?” the servant turned, with visible exasperation in his features. Barry felt momentarily bad for keeping the man from his duties – who knew what the warlock was gonna do to him if all his tasks were not finished before Cold came back.

  
“What’s your name?” he asked, terrified for a moment that the servant would say something like ‘you won’t be alive long enough for it to matter’. However, after a second of hesitation, then servant’s lips quirked up (and god, Barry would never admit it out loud, but the man was really… attractive when he smirked like that).

  
“You can call me Len.”

 

...

 

Lisa’s projection shook at the edges, blurring her image with the force of her laughter. Len scowled and crossed his arms over his chest defensively:

 

“It’s not _that_ funny, you know.”

 

“Oh, it is,” she howled, slapping her half-transparent knee and wiping a tear out of the corner of her eye in the next moment. “Lenny… only _you_ , seriously. Why did you even invite the kid, huh?”

  
“I didn’t,” Len snarled, affronted that she would think so. “I couldn’t just help that doctor out of the goodness of my heart, do you know what kind of a message that would send?! When I said ‘most precious’, I meant a damned family heirloom, some ruby brooch or shit like that – I definitely did _not_ mean ‘send me your fucking _son_ ’.”

 

“That’s what you get for your bleeding heart,” she said dryly, inspecting her (golden) nails. “What’re you gonna do?”

  
“I don’t know,” he repeated what he’d been thinking for the past hour, before he decided to call on his sister for help. WHY he had thought that she would actually offer some advice instead of giggling about his misery was beyond him. “I can’t just send him packing.”

 

“I assume you’re not gonna kill him either,” she raised an eyebrow, and Len shot her a withering look that had her projection raising hands in a placating gesture:

  
“Yeah, I know, I know. Just had to ask.”

 

She hovered in the corner of the room for a moment, allowing Len to pick up the half-empty cup of wine from the table and take a sip. This was a mess – he was supposed to get some golden trinket and never bother helping people again, but no: now he had a kid in his house he didn’t know what to do with. A kid who thought he was _his own manservant_.

  
“Give it a few days,” Lisa spoke again. “You’ll see if he’s of any use: if anything, he can help you around the house. You’ve been-”

  
“If you say ‘lonely’, I’m going to ice you when you come back,” Len grumbled, and Lisa smirked:

 

“Whatever you say, Lenny. Enjoy your new boy-toy.”

  
The cup sailed through the air and right through Lisa just as she was vanishing, her laughter ringing in the air, leaving Len with window drapes dripping wine and the residual irritation he’d come to expect whenever talking to his baby sister.

 

He had to figure out what to do with Barry. But when he thought of those big puppy eyes and that sunny smile, he had no idea what that something should be.


	2. Chapter 2

Barry awoke to the feeling of his toes freezing off his feet. Half-asleep, he tried curling his body on itself, wrapping himself tighter in the wine-colored comforter: that just ended badly when he connected with the side of the bed that had not been warmed up with his body heat, and he yelped, pulling his knees away from the cool mattress.

 

He sat up with a scowl. Right… an ice warlock’s place wouldn’t be warm, of course. He threw the covers off himself, shivering violently as the cool air hit his body, and dragged his boots onto his feet to go look for his clothes.

 

Frankly, he was surprised that the water in the pitcher on the washstand wasn’t covered in a thin sheet of ice: it didn’t really make it much warmer, anyway, but he did feel a little better after cleaning up. He ended up wearing both of his spare shirts, still shivering as he got out of his room, looking around.

 

Barry had no idea where to go now: he’d gone through his morning routine of get up – wash – dress automatically, but now that his brain was actually waking up, he wasn’t sure what was expected of him. Should he just sit in his room and wait to be summoned…? What if the warlock wasn’t back yet? Maybe Len would bring him breakfast – but it seemed rude to have him walk all the way upstairs with a tray of food, like Barry was some important guest. He was more of a prisoner here, no matter how nice his room was, and he decided not to tempt the fate (and create unnecessary work for Len) by lounging around in his room, waiting.

 

The corridors were a little more welcoming in the crisp early daylight, and Barry remembered the way from yesterday well enough that he managed to get to the wooden staircase with relative ease. As he started down the stairs, the smell of eggs and bacon and fresh bread wafted up to his nose and his stomach growled loudly: he hadn’t even realized how hungry he was until the delicious smells nearly made him double over.

 

“Good morning,” he called to Len, who stood near an old stove, in the same (or at least very similar) clothes from yesterday. Barry wondered how it was possible that the man wasn’t cold… maybe if he stayed here long enough, he would adapt to the chilly air. Barry wasn’t sure if he was looking forward to it or dreading it.

  
The servant turned to Barry, holding a huge pan with what looked like the fluffiest scrambled eggs in the world. Barry’s stomach made a loud noise – turned out his appetite didn’t care about the anxiety still simmering right under his skin when he thought about being in a warlock’s house.

 

“Morning,” Len replied, piling the steaming eggs onto two plates. “Hungry?”

  
“Yeah,” Barry smiled at the man – they were going to be spending some time together, being the only humans in the house. Well, Barry couldn’t say he was too sorry: any company likely beat the company of the warlock. Though… _were_ they the only ones? Barry didn’t know.

  
“I was thinking,” he spoke as a plate of those awesome eggs, coupled with a loaf of warm bread, was set in front of him, onto a chipped wooden table in the middle of the kitchen.

  
“Eat,” Len commanded, seating himself opposite Barry and digging into his own breakfast with gusto; Barry didn’t want to annoy him, and it turned out it would be difficult to focus on anything else than the heavenly taste of fresh food in his mouth. Maybe Len used to be a cook, before he got here – because this stuff was perfect.

 

They ate in silence, mostly companionable and a little bit tense, because Barry’s mind was still teeming with questions he needed answered, preferably before Cold returned, so he could prepare for what was coming.  
  
“So,” he started, once half of his breakfast was gone and he didn’t feel like his stomach was going to start digesting itself. “How long have you been here?”

  
It was a valid question, but Len still gave him a weird look over the table. Barry tried to win the staring match, but in the end he averted his eyes in discomfort. Maybe it was personal – maybe he shouldn’t be demanding answers from the man who-

  
“I don’t remember,” Len spoke quietly. “Long.”

 

“What do you mean you don’t remember?” Barry blinked up at the guy in surprise. “What about your life before this? I mean… you have to remember how many years you’ve spent at an evil warlock’s place, right? Something about your past? Family, friends-”

  
“I don’t,” Len frowned, aggressively chasing his scrambled eggs over the plate. The wistful look on his face sent a chill down Barry’s spine: not remembering was probably Cold’s fault, and Barry shivered as he thought about the possibility of forgetting his parents, his friends, all of his life up until the moment he arrived at the warlock’s gates. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry anymore, so he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, feeling cold again, despite the brushes of warm air creeping up on him from the direction of the stove.

  
Len stood up and took their plates; it sounded like he scraped the uneaten food somewhere and then started washing the dishes, while Barry stared at the frost covering the small kitchen window. The patterns danced prettily against the glass, but all Barry could think of was the magic making it happen, and what it would do to him once the warlock got back.

 

“You should wear something warmer,” Len spoke from behind him and Barry jumped, turning to Len with a sheepish look.

 

“I don’t _have_ anything else,” he mumbled, feeling like an idiot: but he’d run from his home in the middle of the night, without much time to prepare or pack properly. And he really hadn’t prepared for a scenario other than being sacrificed for some bloody spell upon his arrival.

  
In hindsight, it hadbeen a bit stupid, walking into an _ice_ warlock’s place without something to keep away the actual _cold_. Len must’ve thought so too, because he snorted, turning up his eyes to the ceiling as if he was expecting advice from the gods, then sighed and motioned for Barry to follow him.

  
Barry did – it wasn’t like he had anything better to do, and he’d been secretly terrified that Len would just send him up to his room after breakfast. Silly as it was, he was glad to have another human here, someone he could talk to, even if the usual responses seemed to be grunts and frowns. But… despite the gruff behavior, Len _had_ shown him to a nice room yesterday, and fed him this morning, and seemed concerned with Barry’s well-being enough to notice that Barry was shivering.

 

It should just be reassuring, but in all honesty, Barry was a little worried what all this care meant. Did Cold need him for something specific later on? Maybe Len had orders not to let Barry get sick – no, he seemed surprised yesterday that Barry showed up as payment for his father’s debt. It was probably just Len being kind on his own, and Barry was being paranoid about it. No wonder, in a warlock’s house, but still… he resolved not to think the worst of Len just yet. If the man had been here so long that he didn’t even remember the exact time, maybe he just wasn’t used to talking to people anymore. Barry bet that talking to _Cold_ wasn’t exactly a joyful event.

 

Len led him through the house, to a room that was about as large as Barry’s, but seemed to serve as storage. Paintings in golden frames, half-concealed with linen cloth were pushed against the walls, cabinets and shelves cluttered the room, ornamental vases and tiny statuettes set with dusty gemstones were piled seemingly without any regard for their price on all available surfaces. Barry let out an awed sigh as he stepped deeper into the labyrinth of furniture, taking in the details of some of the golden trinkets all around. He found Len giving him an amused smirk over the shoulder.

  
“I take it you really don’t come from money, kid.”

  
“We’re not poor,” Barry shrugged, a bit defensive. “But we also don’t have gold lying around like yesterday’s trash.”  

 

“I’d advise you not to steal anything, but it’s not like you’re going anywhere, so if something strikes your fancy, feel free to take it up to your room.”

 

The permission stung with the reminder that Barry wasn’t getting out of this place (alive), and he shivered again.

  
“Here,” Len walked to him and threw something heavy and soft over Barry’s shoulders. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a woolen coat, deep red with golden lining and obviously cut for a man with slightly wider shoulders than Barry’s, but he wasn’t going to be picky, as long as it could keep him warmer. The coat seemed to fulfil that task, old but well-preserved, and Barry huddled into it happily.

  
“Thanks,” he smiled, then nodded towards Len: “How come you’re not cold?”

  
“You could say I’m a part of the inventory here. I don’t feel the cold anymore.”

 

Len was smirking as he said it, lopsided and ironic, but Barry could once again feel the sadness behind the man’s expression. Did he regret not remembering his past life? Did he regret not knowing who he was, not having a life without servitude to a warlock? Barry wanted to help him find out who he was, but it wasn’t like he was in any position to help anyone right now, himself included.

 

He couldn’t keep thinking about that – if he sat around all day thinking about all the ways this could (and probably would) end badly for him, he would drive himself crazy before the warlock got back. He needed something to do, and the only one who could tell him what he _could_ do around here was Len.

 

“So what do you do here all day?” Barry shrugged, and Len gave him a curious look.

  
“What do you have in mind?”

  
“I don’t know,” Barry sighed. “Something? I’m not used to sitting around without at least having something to read.”

  
Len seemed to think about it for a while, then nodded towards the door.

  
“You could help with the library.”

  
“There’s a library?” Barry blinked. “Is it full of heavy tomes of evil spells?”

 

“No,” Len grumbled. “It’s just a library. But if you’re not interested-“

 

“I am,” Barry said quickly, and was led up the stairs, into a wing of the house that felt a lot colder than Barry’s room. When Len opened the heavy double door, Barry sighed in appreciation, much more heartfelt than the reaction he’d had to all the gold. He’d never been big on material possessions, but _books_ – that was a different story.

  
“This is awesome,” he breathed out as he looked up and turned around slowly, taking in the shelves that lined all the walls, packed with so many books that Barry was certain he hadn’t seen more even at the university library.

 

When he looked back down, Len was smiling at him.

  
“The books need dusting, once in a while. You can stay and read whatever you want in the meantime.”

  
Barry felt like hugging the man, but it didn’t feel like the gesture would be appreciated, so he nodded, a wide grin he couldn’t fight splitting his face.

  
“Do you think there are any medical books?” he asked – he knew he wasn’t going back to the university, anytime soon and probably ever, but that didn’t mean he would pass up an opportunity to learn.

  
Len frowned and looked around, uncertain.

  
“The books are old, like the whole house. There will be a few, I’m sure, but count with them being rather outdated.”

 

Old like the house. It made Barry frown and look around again as something occurred to him. The style of the furniture and the cut of the coat resembled something from at least two hundred years ago, and yet, nothing looked worn-out.

  
“Do warlocks live longer than normal people?” Barry mused out loud. The question was greeted with silence, and Barry glanced at Len to find him frowning in thought.

  
“I don’t know,” he shrugged eventually. “Why?”

  
“It’s just the house,” Barry gestured in a circle around himself. “It’s like you said – everything here is old, like it was built, or brought, long ago. Well, I guess there goes our chance of the warlock kicking the bucket of old age, huh,” he chuckled.

 

Len gave him a tight-lipped smile.

  
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

  
“It certainly wouldn’t be the worst thing. We would be free then, right?”

 

“I’ll leave you to the books,” Len muttered and briskly walked out of the door: Barry was left alone to wonder what was it that made the servant react like that whenever Barry voiced his dislike for the warlock. Misplaced loyalty, maybe – a professor had told a story once, about people who were kidnapped developing a twisted sense of trust for their captor. Maybe that was what happened to Len: he’d been here so long that he forgot his family, his life, himself, and all he knew was Cold.  
  
Barry wondered if he could make the man remember what it felt like to belong to the human race again.

 

......

 

Reading proved a useful distraction tactic for a few hours, but as the sky began to darken beyond the frosty windows, Barry found himself tapping his foot restlessly against the marble floor. He hadn’t even realized how much time had passed: it was a bittersweet reminder of his time at the university, where he would often forget to eat when he was buried in his studies.

 

However, his stomach was growling now and he couldn’t focus on reading anymore, wondering about the warlock again, and about his parents: they must’ve figured out that Barry was gone by now. He hadn’t left any notes behind, unsure of what to say, but he had no doubt his father and mother would know where he had gone. For a single moment, he wanted to look out of the window and make sure that they weren’t waiting for him just outside, waiting to take him back home: but he knew that was a foolish and selfish wish. He had come here precisely so they wouldn’t get hurt by the warlock – his father who was helping so many people, his mother whose health was still not completely restored.

 

Thinking about them just worsened Barry’s nervousness. What if the warlock didn’t come back in time? What if he decided that the time for Henry Allen’s payment was up, and he would go straight to their cottage and-

 

No. Barry couldn’t think about that either. There was still a day left – one day in the month that the warlock had given his father to deliver his present. If the warlock would come home tonight, or tomorrow, everything would have to be fine.

 

Barry set down the book he’d been reading – outdated, yes, but with some interesting approaches to the use of herbs and oils in medicine – and set on his way to the kitchen. He could hear Len bustling around all the way from the staircase, and when he got down, the smell of stew hit his nose, making Barry groan.

  
“I’ll do whatever you want for a bowl of that,” he walked closer, peering into the pot: Len smiled, just a little bit, like he didn’t want to, and pushed Barry away with a firm hand against his chest.

 

“Go sit down or you’ll end up burnt. It’s not done yet.”

 

Barry obeyed, snatching a piece of carrot from the cutting board by the stove, which made Len scowl at him, but Barry couldn’t take him seriously with a huge stirring ladle in his hand and wearing an actual apron. Barry almost wished, for a moment, that the warlock wouldn’t come back – staying here with Len didn’t seem like such a hardship, after all. But if the warlock didn’t return… then Barry’s parents could be in danger.

  
His foot tapped out a nervous rhythm against the leg of the chair at that thought.

  
“Do you know if Cold’s going to be back soon?”

 

“No,” Len’s shoulders visibly tensed, and Barry winced. Who knew what the warlock had done to Len, how he had punished the slightest mistake in household chores, or in the taste of the food… Barry couldn’t imagine the warlock as a benevolent master. Maybe Len didn’t want to think about his return, despite the way he’d looked when Barry had talked poorly about Cold before. Now that Barry thought about it, maybe it hadn’t been loyalty to the warlock after all: maybe it was just concealed fear. It was possible Len was worried about what he would do if the warlock died – with no memories and no one to return to, it could be terrifying to think about the outside world, about all the possibilities he would have if Cold was gone.

 

And here Barry was, rekindling those fears with his insistent questions.

 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, trying to still his feet and hands so they wouldn’t betray his nerves. If Len was really afraid of Cold (like any sane person should be), what awaited Barry once the warlock returned?

  
“Sorry?” Len repeated. “What for?”

 

“Asking stupid questions, I suppose,” Barry gave a slight shrug, worrying with his nail on the gold thread that lined the edges of his borrowed coat.

  
“They’re not stupid, kid. I just don’t know the answer.”

 

Barry had to bite his lip to refrain from blurting out all the other questions threatening to spill from his mouth. _What happened to you? What has Cold_ done _to you? And what will happen to_ me _?_

_  
_ “What have you heard about Cold?” Len asked after a while, stirring the stew with his back to Barry. Was he asking for information? Maybe if they worked together, they could somehow plan an escape – maybe they could find Cold’s weakness; use it somehow to get away, to stop him from hurting any more people. Barry was no hero, but if he could do something, _anything_ , to prevent more murders, more robberies, then he would.

 

“He’s powerful,” Barry started, trying to recount all the tales he’d heard in the city, “powerful, but ruthless. He uses his magic to hurt people, kill them, like all warlocks, really… and he steals from a lot of noblemen. No one has been able to defeat him, though, even when some nobles hired several other warlocks to battle Cold. Is it true?” he watched Len curiously. The warlocks around these parts seemed to be constantly warring over one thing or another, always irritated with each other, always trying to wipe each other out to gain more ground, more people to extort, or at least it felt like it to Barry. It wasn’t uncommon for them to go after each other – Barry had developed a theory once, about how magic amplified aggression, but he had no way to prove that, except the fact that all warlocks seemed like downright crazy assholes, always yelling and fighting and murdering innocent people. However, it seemed impossible that one of them would be so much stronger that not even several others could defeat him. Barry bet Len could tell him if that wasn’t true.

  
“Yeah, pretty much,” Len’s shoulders rose in a shrug for a moment, crushing Barry’s hopes with three simple words. Barry deflated with a sigh.  

 

“Did you fight him?” he blurted out before he could think twice about it, because it occurred to him that Len could have been a soldier, hired to protect something that Cold wanted. Was that how he got here? Or had he been delivering some payment and Cold detained him, wiped his memories somehow…?

 

Len raised an incredulous eyebrow at Barry, turning halfway towards the table even as he stirred the stew. He didn’t look like it was a painful memory, so Barry had probably been wrong – Len just appeared surprised by the notion itself, like he couldn’t even imagine standing up to the warlock. Like he couldn’t imagine whyhe should try.

 

“How did you come up with that, kid?”

 

“I don’t know,” Barry shook his head dismissively. “You just… I don’t know. You seem conflicted when we talk about Cold. Like you kinda hate him, but then, sometimes… not really? I can’t explain it, sorry.”

 

_That_ definitely made a myriad of conflicted emotions flicker through Len’s eyes: he turned back to the pot quickly, so Barry couldn’t see all of it, but he made a mental note to inconspicuously get back to the issue later. There had to be a reason why Len looked so torn over Cold, why he seemed reluctant to go against the warlock, and Barry resolved to figure it out. He would have to tread carefully, approach less directly, but it wasn’t impossible – one could reason with a normal human like Len, right? And it would give Barry something to think about, something else than whether his parents were alright.

 

“I think you should eat your dinner,” Len muttered after a while, setting a steaming bowl in front of Barry. “And stop worrying so much. About me, or about Cold.”

 

“Easy to say for you,” Barry frowned. How could Len tell him not to worry?! How could he completely disregard the reality of their situation, their imprisonment, all the things they would be missing? Anger pushed up in Barry’s chest like a rising tide, and he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that none of this was Len’s fault, but at the moment couldn’t stop all of his worries from spilling out in a massive wave of indignation. “I came here because I wanted to save my parents – what if Cold comes back too late? I don’t want him to kill my father, or my mother, because he thinks they didn’t keep their promise.”

  
“He won’t kill them,” Len huffed, and Barry slammed his spoon onto the table.

  
“But you don’t _know_ that, do you? I’m sorry we can’t all be so content to be imprisoned in an evil warlock’s house, but I can’t just _forget_ my family! How can I trust that Cold won’t hurt them? What’s to stop someone like him, someone with no heart?”

 

He knew he had leaped over some invisible boundary the second he saw Len’s expression shutter. Barry furiously wanted to backpedal, take back the things about forgetting he’d just shouted at someone who didn’t even remember who he was and who might still be waiting for him – but there was nothing he could do.

  
“Len, I-“

  
“Eat your dinner,” Len’s tone was clipped as he turned to the stove. For a moment, Barry thought that Len was just picking up his own dinner, but Len pulled the pot off the heated part of the stove and then stalked out.

  
Barry hated that he was still hungry – he slurped down the stew, which was better than he probably deserved at the moment, and felt like crap. What would his father and mother say if they saw how he treated someone who had showed him nothing but kindness, reluctant and sometimes grudging, but still _kindness_ , since Barry got here? What would Caitlin and Cisco say… or Iris? Barry’s heart clenched at the memory of his loved ones and he rubbed at his eyes, willing himself not to tear up because that wasn’t going to help, but his eyes still stung when he washed his bowl and spoon and walked up the stairs to his bedroom.

 

He felt like an even bigger piece of shit when he saw that the fireplace in his room was lit with some sort of a magical fire: it had to be magical, because there was no wood, but the room was still cozy with the warmth of the flames, and Barry fell asleep wondering whether he’d just managed to screw up his only chance at human interaction.

 

......

 

“You owe me for that fire,” Mick’s reflection in the mirror huffed, and the silvery glass cleared to its original state. Len sighed and dragged a hand down his face. He was in over-

  
“You’re in over your head,” Lisa snorted from the counter and Len really wished she was corporeal again so he could just lock her out of his space for a while.

  
“Can you not?” he asked, but Lisa had never been great at _not_ picking at a barely scabbed-over wound.

  
“You’re digging your own grave here, Lenny. Why can’t you just-“

  
“What? Tell him the truth? You know I can’t, Lisa. You know _why_.”

 

“Oh yeah,” she sneered, her ghastly body gliding past him towards the window. She lifted her hand and the frost covering the glass panes glinted with tiny golden flecks. “I know. ‘People have to fear us, so they won’t hurt us.’ I’ve heard you say that so many times I’m frankly quite sick of it.”

  
“It’s not _me_ who needs the extra protection,” he shot back at her, and Lisa gave him a half-annoyed, half-sad look. He was really aiming low with the reminder of her current state, of why they – he – had to keep doing things a certain way, but he was exhausted and emotionally drained and all he needed was to go to sleep, not to explain himself to his intangible sister.

 

“You could let him in, Lenny,” Lisa spoke softly, and Len laughed at that, frosty and cynical.

  
“Oh yeah? And what if he decides to run off and tell someone? What if he finds out your – _our_ – secret and someone comes rushing in here with pitchforks and torches when I’m out? I can’t risk that, Lisa, you know I can’t. Not for…” he trailed off, shaking his head, but Lisa knew him too well and she smiled, not unkindly, raising her hand towards him as if she wanted to touch his shoulder, but he wouldn’t feel it and she let her hand drop in just a moment. Sometimes, when she forgot herself like this, Len just wanted to scream, feeling powerless in the face of his sister’s condition.

 

“Not for whatever it is you want from him,” she finished his sentence quietly, and he shook his head again.

  
“I don’t want anything from him,” he said firmly, but the lie rang hollow even to his own ears. “He fears Cold, as well he should. I will make sure it stays that way.”

 

He could see his eyes harden in the reflection of the mirror; Lisa’s projection flickered a little around the edges.

  
“Don’t let this destroy you, Lenny. I know how you get – you will end up hurt either way, so maybe you could just let yourself have one nice thing before that happens.”

 

She dissolved like smoke in the wind, and Len rose from the mirror, unable to look at himself any longer. He was going to get sleep… and Barry was going to get the Cold he so wished for.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The sun was high up by the time Barry roused from sleep. The room remained cozy through the night, and even though it was a little strange to stare into the dancing flames without the tell-tale crackle or faint smell of burning wood, Barry was thankful for the warmth. His immediate thoughts went to Len – for a moment, Barry doubted if Len wasn’t a warlock himself, otherwise how did the fire get into Barry’s fireplace? But that was impossible. Len was kind, caring, and calm – none of those were traits commonly associated with any warlock Barry ever heard of. Maybe Len had learned how to do some minor spellwork, due to living together with a warlock for so long? Barry heard theories about warlocks’ magic being transferable, but he’d always thought it was just a rumor. Then again, nobody really knew anything definite, except the general understanding that when a warlock appeared, you’d better run for your life, so maybe there was some truth to those theories.

 

Thinking about Len brought home the feeling that Barry really needed to apologize. He had blown up at the man, screamed some really nasty things in his face, and he had to say sorry before the guilt ate him alive. Determined not to waste another moment, Barry swung his legs off the bed, glad for the fire once more when his feet did not connect with ice-cold stone, and got through his morning ablutions as quickly as possible.

 

The way to the kitchen was easier today, since he remembered it well this time – however, no delicious smells rose up to meet him as he descended the staircase. The kitchen was empty and Barry frowned: he tried to tell himself that seeing Len cooking yesterday did not mean it was a routine he repeated every morning, but it was a shabby excuse. Something felt wrong, like the house was suddenly a lot emptier than before, and Barry shivered, huddling into the red coat. His stomach growled loudly, and Barry ended up taking an apple from a small basket under the window, unsure of whether or not he was allowed to use the kitchen, or eat the food without Len there. It felt like he just arrived, like he did not know the rules of the place, where he was or wasn’t allowed to go, what he could or couldn’t do. Feeling Len’s absence like an unpleasant, anxious tightness around his heart, Barry tried looking for the man downstairs, in the dining room, in the hall. He peered around corners into darkened corridors he hadn’t been to before, but he didn’t dare go further. After a while of fruitless searching, he ended up coming back upstairs to the library – at least the books made him feel a little steadier, just like yesterday. He picked up the feather duster he had found before, feeling like he should actually do the work which had been the reason (or excuse?) for Len letting him in here. Barry took that opportunity to scan through the titles of books, remembering which ones he wanted to read next and where they were, but the dusting didn’t take as long as he would’ve wanted and soon, he was standing in the middle of the room with nothing to do. Reading did not prove quite as good a distraction as yesterday: all Barry could think of was Len. Where had he disappeared to? Maybe he was cleaning some other room… maybe he was avoiding Barry, after the things Barry had said yesterday.

 

Barry set the book down and stalked out of the library. He wasn’t going to let Len avoid him forever: he would find the man and apologize, and then he would try to control his emotions the next time he was mad.

 

He was starting to recognize the corridors of the house. Trying the doors mostly brought him to obviously unused rooms filled with cloth-covered furniture: at some point, more people had to be living here, which only made Barry think of the ways the warlock had come to own this place. What happened to the family who used to live here before? Did Cold kill them all, or just threatened them? Did he ask for the house as a payment for _not_ killing them, like he asked for Barry in return for his parents’ life? A shiver ran down Barry’s spine as he thought about Len, and whether he’d been a servant here before Cold arrived, left behind as a part of the deal.

 

The manor house wasn’t as huge as Barry had thought when he’d first arrived. It took him maybe half an hour to look into all the rooms in the south wing, where his own bedroom was located, and then check the east wing, a good half of which was the library. The air got colder as Barry got closer to the north wing – he had to cross his arms over his chest, sticking his fingers under his armpits to keep the cool air out. The north wing was darker than the other two, but aside from several huge mirrors lining the corridors, Barry didn’t see much difference otherwise. He was probably becoming too used to this place, to the feeling of abandonment, though, because he startled badly when he passed the first mirror. He would’ve sworn something flickered across the reflective glass – but when he stopped to look, it was just his own image, distorted against the blackened silver layer in the mirror. The thing must’ve been old, even older than most of this place, and Barry turned away from it with a feeling of unease building in his stomach, which he suppressed as best he could, his hands clenching into fists involuntarily. He refused to be scared away, to make excuses, just because an old mirror made him feel weird – he wasn’t a child anymore, and he had to find Len if he wanted to apologize.

 

He had passed the first door of the corridor already, and no matter how much he told himself he was an adult and thus not worried about strange reflections, he didn’t feel like passing the mirror more times than he strictly had to. After all, he would have to return the same way, and the order in which he tried the doors didn’t matter, did it?

 

Barry reached for the handle of the second door and pushed it open slowly, preparing himself for another dusty, unused room-

  
Something roared and charged at him out of the doorway: Barry stumbled away with a yelp before even registering what it was. His heart thundered madly in his chest as he stared his attacker in the eyes – if ‘eyes’ was even the right term. The thing was seemingly made of ice, in the vague shape of a human body, except that the sharp angles and edges of the ice shards did not lend any illusion of actual humanity. Its face was rough and uneven, with bright blue slits where the eyes should be. _Cold_ , Barry thought as the warlock snarled, stepping into Barry’s space until Barry could feel his skin sting from the freezing air.

 

“Never,” Cold roared, with an unpleasant, tinny undercurrent, like dragging a finger over the rim of a glass, “never come here again, or you will pay!”

 

Before Barry could even try to say ‘sorry’, his body responded in the only way that was reasonable at that moment. He ran, stumbling over his own feet and barely seeing where he was going, until he reached his bedroom and slammed the door behind himself, leaning against the polished wood as if he could keep the monster - the warlock - out, should it choose to follow. But he couldn’t – if Cold truly chose to attack him, to kill him, Barry would be powerless and that helplessness terrified him more than he ever thought possible. Before, when Len had been here, Barry had felt nostalgic, melancholic because he couldn’t be with his family, his friends; this morning when he’d thought he was alone in the manor, he had felt lonely and guilty… but nothing he could have imagined had prepared him for the sheer terror of meeting a warlock like Cold face to face.

 

And Cold was every bit as awful as people said. Barry waited a while for any sound indicating that Cold was following, but the house remained eerily quiet and as Barry calmed down a little, he remembered how he’d opened that door. For a split second, before Cold came charging at him, Barry got a glimpse of that room… and there had been a bed, with someone lying in it. Barry couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman – he sent a prayer to any gods who might be listening that it wasn’t Len. How many people did Cold even keep here? Would it be Barry’s fate, lying in a bed while the warlock drew on his life force for a spell, or something equally awful? 

 

Barry dropped to the floor and drew his knees towards his chest, burying his face in his arms, into the soft fabric of the coat from Len. Would the man come back soon? Barry found himself wishing he would, so that there would be another human here with him, someone to talk to, someone calm and kind and non-violent. So that Barry could apologize, so that he would know that Len was alright, that Cold hadn’t done anything to him. Barry hadn’t fully appreciated how normal Len made this feel, to be in this huge, empty manor; now that Barry was stuck here with Cold, he was truly scared. All he could do was hope the warlock’s wrath would fall only on him, not on his family.

 

.....

 

Len closed the door and turned back into the room, chunks of ice falling off his face as he walked back towards the bed.

  
“A bit dramatic, aren’t we,” Lisa snorted from where she was hovering near the window – she never liked coming too close to the bed. Len couldn’t really blame her: it wasn’t his favorite pastime either, checking on his sister’s half-dead body when her conscience kept following him around like an irritating cloud.

  
“We had this exact conversation yesterday, if I remember correctly,” Len said blankly and sat down, lifting Lisa’s pale arm off the bed so he could continue what Barry had so unexpectedly interrupted.  
  
Lisa’s projection managed to pout almost audibly.

  
“He really doesn’t seem like a bad person,” she offered, and Len snorted:

  
“No, he doesn’t. And do you remember how it ended when we trusted the last ‘good person’ we met, huh?”  
  
His head tilted pointedly towards the body on the bed: it was almost ironic that the Lisa talking to him was only a projection of her, because she looked more alive in her incorporeal form than the pale, thin girl almost buried in the silky pillows and covers. Her physical skin was nearly translucent, her eyes never open, and Len always had to fight through that irrational bout of worry that he was going to break her fragile bones if he didn’t handle her like precious china.

 

“That was a low blow,” Sam spoke, his face flickering across the surface of the mirror behind Lisa’s bed. “I don’t care if you get off on scaring little boys away from the door, Cold, you don’t have to be an asshole to Lisa.”

  
“Of course. The knight in the shining mirror speaks,” Len sneered. The mirror warlock was an annoyance, but Lisa had a soft spot for him and he _was_ useful, courtesy of all the things he could do with reflective surfaces.

 

“Don’t take your anger out on people who are trying to help you,” Sam grumbled, making Len roll his eyes at the sycophancy.

 

“You’re only here for my sister, not me,” he reminded, never doubting that Sam would throw him to the wolves if it weren’t for the guy’s unfortunate infatuation with Lisa, “so how about you shut your trap and guard her properly? Then neither of you will have to worry about ‘little boys’ facing the big bad ice monster.”

 

“If it wasn’t for me and my mirrors, you wouldn’t even know he was coming, so you’re fucking welcome. It’s your fault to begin with that there’s a stranger in the house Lisa needs to be guarded _from._ ”

 

“It’s my house. If you don’t like it, you’re free to go,” Len smirked. He wasn’t above using Sam’s feelings against him, knowing full well that the guy wasn’t going anywhere as long as Lisa stayed. Len also knew that Sam was right, to a certain extent: it _was_ Len’s fault that Barry was here, and he should have mentioned the restrictions upon Barry’s movement around the house earlier, as the servant Barry took him for. But he wasn’t willing to admit his faults: what he said to Lisa about humans having to fear him was just as true for other warlocks. As long as they considered him more powerful, more cunning, more ruthless than them, they would fall in line, or at least think twice before causing any trouble.

  
“I could always trap the boy in the mirror world,” Sam piped up again, and Len flashed a scowl his way.

  
“Nobody lays a finger on the boy,” he insisted, then shrugged, tilting his head to the side with a small grin: “Unless he attempts to harm Lisa, in which case, he’s all yours.”

 

He liked Barry, probably a lot more than was healthy for him - but he loved his sister with a fierce, burning passion, and he would do anything and everything to keep her safe, to break her curse, to see her laugh again with her actual mouth instead of a projection. If Barry put Lisa in danger, if he attempted to hurt her in any way… Len didn’t think Barry would do that, but _if_ it happened, he would personally hunt the boy down and unleash the _true_ fury of an ice warlock.

 

The promise of revenge, should anything happen to Lisa, seemed to calm Sam down, but as per usual, failed to keep him quiet.

 

“In any other case, he remains _yours_?” he asked pointedly. Len ignored the jab, feeling like he could rise above their petty teasing if only they dropped the subject.

 

Of course, he was in no such luck.

  
“You should stop with the two-faced charade,” Lisa snorted. “What good does it do you, anyway? You made the poor kid wet his pants with that display earlier, bravo. What comes next? You could just explain things to him, Lenny. He seems smart.”

  
“Smart doesn’t mean he would be willing – or able – to help. And once again: we don’t know if we can trust him. I’m not risking your life to prove your point,” Len huffed at his sister: he wasn’t overjoyed at the thought of pulling Barry, a human without any magic to protect himself, into their plans, and he didn’t see why Lisa thought it was such a great idea.

 

“Why do you keep the kid around, then?” Sam huffed.

 

“Oh, I bet Lenny’s all lonely in the big, big house,” Lisa drawled in that sweet voice that felt like being force-fed poisoned honey. Len grit his teeth and let her lash out in silence, let her take revenge for his earlier comments. She always hated being reminded of her condition, and when he couldn’t stop himself from saying something that basically threw it back in her face, the least he could do to repent was let her spit something equally biting back.

  
“How could I be lonely, with such stellar company,” he growled under his breath as Sam sniggered inside of his mirror. These two were made for each other, and they deserved each other in all of their annoying glory: Len sincerely hoped his sister would wake up soon and they would figure out a way to help Sam, just so they could get on each other’s nerves instead of teaming up against Len.

 

He gathered the bowl and the towel he’d been using to wipe down Lisa’s immobile body: she was in some sort of a magical stasis, which meant she did not sweat or starve, but Len couldn’t stand the idea of dust gathering over his sister’s body, so he routinely cleaned her up. She used to mock him for the unnecessary task, but he could always hear in her voice that she was moved, despite all the sarcasm.

   
“Are you going to see him?” Lisa called as he was near the door.

  
“Don’t you dare use Sam to spy on me,” Len warned with a scowl. She’d done that way too many times already: it was partially a reason why Len had thrown out the mirror from his own room. Maybe he should suggest the same to Barry – except he did want someone to keep an eye on the kid, if only for a few days, or when Len was gone. This was really starting to tear him apart, rationality warring with emotions: Lisa was right. He would have to figure out what to do with Barry, and soon.

 

Her laughter suggested that she would attempt to spy anyway, or maybe try to spook Barry by pretending that she was a ghost. With a sigh, he closed the door behind himself, walking further down the north wing corridor to his own bedroom.

 

He wished he could avoid it, but he did need to talk to Barry. The kid got scared away from Lisa, but Len needed to delineate the boundaries in clear words, make the kid understand, even if he couldn’t – wouldn’t – explain the reasoning behind the restrictions. Plus, Barry had expressed the wish to meet Cold to make sure his parents were alright: after the scare from earlier, ‘Cold’ owed his guest that much. Len hadn’t exactly planned Barry’s encounter with his warlock persona this way: he’d wanted to meet the kid cool and collected, make him vaguely wary of Cold instead of flat-out terrified. He’d panicked when Sam had announced that Barry was about to enter Lisa’s room, and in the seconds he'd had, without his signature cloak and hood, there had been no other way to prevent Barry from seeing Lisa and at the same time, stop the kid from discovering Len’s true identity: or maybe there _had_ been, but with almost no time to think, it had never occurred to Len.  He always went a little crazy when it came to protecting his sister (hence a part of their current predicament).

 

The midnight-blue cloak clung to Len’s shoulders with familiar weight, and he let his arms and the lower half of his face ice over as he pulled the fur-trimmed hood over his head. He reached Barry’s room in mere moments and his hand was mid-air for a knock when he frowned at his urge to be polite and simply barged in instead. Warlocks, at least those that Barry knew and feared, did not knock in their own houses: Len decided he was not going to undo all of this difficult double game by being too polite to fit a stereotype.

 

He nearly changed his decision as soon as he lay eyes upon the boy: Barry sat back against the headboard of the bed, scrambling away from the door immediately, his face full of anger thinly veiling the fear that kept his eyes flickering. Contrary to what the kid believed, Len did not enjoy having people terrified of his very existence: fear was a useful tool, an emotion to be utilized to advance his plans, not something to take pleasure from. He had to think of this as necessary, because he was on the verge of pulling his hood back and showing Barry that he had nothing to be afraid of.

  
Except that might achieve the exact opposite: having met the nastiest part of Len, panicked and enraged and dangerous, Len doubted it would calm the kid to find out that the one person he had come to trust at least a little bit in this place was in fact the very warlock who made him come here.

 

And suddenly Len knew he couldn’t tell Barry anything. Barry could be smart, and he could even be willing to help, but Len couldn’t let him leave this place for fear of endangering Lisa. And as long as Barry was here… having someone he could talk to, even if that someone was ‘Len the servant’, would be better than being completely alone in a place full of curses, warlocks and schemes.

 

He let his powers flow a little more freely: a sheen of frost spread out from his feet towards the center of the room, conveniently icing the mirror as well. Barry visibly flinched, pulling his legs closer to his body despite the fact that Len did not let the frost touch the bedding at all.

 

“You will keep away from the north wing,” ice crept into Len's voice as he started with the most important part of this talk. Barry’s defiant look just made him admire the kid: he had enough guts to face his fears head on, which was not something many people could do.

 

“What do you want from me?”

 

“To keep out of the north wing,” Len repeated, and he had to fight the amusement that threatened to melt the frost in his words. Barry seemed to consider this, and his eyes narrowed for a moment as he stared at the warlock.

 

“What about my parents?” the kid asked in the end, chin held high even though his arms were crossed defensively over his chest. Or maybe he was just cold, with all that ice, with Len’s powers sucking the warmth out of the air: Len couldn’t be sure, since he’d lost the ability to feel cold a long time ago.

 

“I haven’t harmed your father or your mother,” Len conceded, wishing to ease at least those worries that he could.

 

“Do you promise to keep away from _them_ , if I keep away from your rooms?”

 

Yeah, the kid had guts alright, Len thought dryly as he smirked, ice crackling against his face.

 

“Warlocks do not bargain like that.”

  
“Yes, you take whatever you want, no matter who gets hurt,” Barry huffed bitterly, and Len almost felt a pang of guilt at that. Once again, he wished he could explain, but he wasn’t sure if the circumstances would ever allow it. The kid took a deep breath, overcoming the momentary bout of warlock-hatred, and continued more reasonably: yes, he had guts, but he also had a brain and knew how to use it, apparently. “You obviously need me here for a reason, and I will do whatever it is you want, just stay away from my family. Don’t hurt them and I’m yours, Cold.”

 

The words struck Len with ferocity he had not expected. An ice crystal fell off his fingers, hitting the ground with a soft clink as he swallowed against the idea of Barry Allen, willingly _his_ , whatever that entailed, whatever he would dare to ask for. It would not be much, likely – he was not going to ‘take whatever he wanted’ from an unwilling boy, not even if he ever figured out what it was he actually wanted here. But the promise of Barry staying touched something within Len that had long been asleep. Even if Len would have to play two roles, both and neither of which were truly himself, it was a bargain this warlock was willing to make.

  
“If you try to run, or I find you in the north wing again, the deal’s off.”

 

He was turning to the door when Barry’s voice stopped him, a little shaky and very determined.

  
“And don’t hurt Len either. It’s not his fault I went somewhere I shouldn’t have gone.”

 

Len’s heart felt like it was cracking along with the ice around his fingers as he sneered at the irony of the request.

  
“Don’t push your luck,” he growled at the kid who was trying to protect him from himself, before walking out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere thanks goes to [lisellevelvet](http://lisellevelvet.tumblr.com/) for beta-read :) all remaining mistakes are mine to be embarrassed about XD

Len’s to-do list for the day started with talking to Barry as the non-threatening servant figure. Barry’s words from the previous evening, when the kid had pleaded for ‘Len’s’ safety, played on a loop in his brain. He kept wondering if he really could get closer to Barry without having to reveal his true identity. Barry seemed to be growing attached to ‘Len’ already, even if it was just the comfort of another human being… and Len hadn’t really been playing a _role_ here. He’d just been himself with Barry, the rusty, long-forgotten part of himself that had only ever surfaced when Len was alone, without the need to act a certain way in order to prove something, to control the situation. It should feel scarier, to reveal himself like that to someone, no power games, no masks, no titles, but Len only felt free when he was with Barry. He’d taught himself a long time ago how to push down the sense of being trapped here – in a lot of ways, both Lisa and he had more freedom now than ever before. But the truth was Len hadn’t had any contact with an actual human being in far too long, and Barry was making him slowly believe that it could work.

 

Except when Barry was voicing his opinion on warlocks in general and Cold in particular – though Len supposed he couldn’t really blame the kid. He’d spent years building up his reputation as a feared monster, so he was just reaping what he sowed; and when he thought about the other warlocks he knew and worked with, the kid may have had a point about Len’s kind being selfish bastards who took what they wanted and damn the consequences.

 

Unfortunately, the plans he had set in motion earlier prevented the encounter of ‘Len’ and Barry from happening as soon as Len would’ve wanted. He had a heist to plan, and he couldn’t have Barry roaming the house: the other warlocks were coming, and Len didn’t quite trust all of them not to stir up trouble. No, scratch that, he didn’t trust any of them for different reasons and on different levels.

 

He ended up leaving a tray of simple breakfast in front of Barry’s door long before dawn so that the kid wouldn’t need to come downstairs, and then returned to the dining room to wait for his guests and accomplices.

 

Mick was the first to appear and Len was thankful for small mercies when he saw that the fire warlock was actually not _on_ fire this time as he walked around Len’s house: getting the char marks out of everything had not been pleasant. Len nodded at him and Mick returned the gesture, taking his usual spot in the dining room, on a marble bench under the windows in case he got excited (or irritated) and started burning up. Again. But despite Mick’s volatile behavior, Len appreciated him the most. They started working together soon after Len finally melted, and he owed the fire warlock a great deal for showing him how to handle powers that threatened to burst out at every moment.

 

Mark showed up next. They’d accidentally saved him from a nasty trap during one of their recent heists and he agreed to help with their future endeavors. However, Len still couldn’t quite decide whether they should keep the impulsive and moody ‘Weather Wizard’ or not. Mark’s personal stake in all of this remained a mystery. It couldn’t just be about the treasure – he did not have the same obsession with jewels, art or gold that others had.

 

Then there was Hartley, who only showed up if they were hitting a place within his parents’ duchy. Len never commented on that (much) – he understood all too well how it felt to want revenge against one’s own family. The others teased Hartley sometimes, but he was efficient and disciplined when he helped, if a little too whiny, so they mostly let him off the hook. As Len predicted, he wasn’t coming for this particular heist – Shawna brought the news after flashing right into the middle of the dining room.

 

Len refrained from rolling his eyes. Since Shawna could only reappear in a place she could see, it became apparent some time ago that she had to creep up to the windows to peek inside in order to make her grand entrance: usually, the only person to make some sort of a comment on that was the person she would startle by appearing right next to them. After one nasty accident including a lot of shouting and some burnt hair, she now made sure never to appear too close to Mick.

 

The grand mirror covering half of one wall allowed them to talk to Sam during their meetings: his powers were invaluable not only as means of transportation to and from the places they were robbing, but also for reconnaissance.  Sam’s ability to see through every mirror provided priceless information about guards and the location of the items they were after. It was he who opened the meeting this time.  

 

No one expressed a wish to wait for Axel. He was a good kid but also a loose cannon, too erratic, too eager to fit in and not great at listening to direct orders.

 

“We have a problem,” Sam spoke up, making all of them frown. “The border skirmishes have taken a good chunk out of the marquis’ treasury and he still needs to pay the mercenaries. He’s gonna move the target pieces tomorrow. If we want to get our hands on those things, we’ll need to strike tonight.”

 

“That doesn’t leave us with much time,” Len leaned over the ornamental dining table, currently half-covered with maps of the marquis’ estate courtesy of Sam’s spying. They were not complete of course.  Not all nooks and crannies had mirrors or even windows, making it difficult for Sam to look everywhere. Len had slipped through the mirrors on several occasions to scout out the place, but the unrest on the borders meant that the marquis’ manor was always bustling with activity and Len had never been able to stay long. He couldn’t risk alerting anyone in the household to his presence and by proxy, to his intentions with their prized possessions.

 

“I’ll start a fire, that’ll distract them,” Mick grunted, and Len shot him a warning glare.

 

“No burning if we can help it. The place will be teeming with highly trained soldiers. Gotta do this quick and quiet.”

 

“We can take them!” Mick stood up menacingly, flames licking up his knuckles as he clenched his fists.

 

Len shook his head calmly, pushing the plans aside to reveal a detailed map of the surrounding lands. “No. The borders are weak enough as it is. We’re not trying to weaken the defenses further by slaughtering men trying to protect the country. This is about the score, the gold, and that’s it.”

 

“Speaking of gold,” Shawna pushed away from the table, her frown issuing a silent challenge. “Where’s our cut from the last time?”

 

Len took one steady breath and waved his hand towards the entrance hall:

 

“When we’re done talking, you’re free to gather all you can carry.”

 

Shawna seemed to settle down a little: she’d only been with them for a short while now, saved from the same trap as Mark, so she still needed to establish trust in Len as a leader. It was understandable: Len did not hold it against her. After all, he didn’t really trust any of them completely, and if he felt that they were standing between him and his goals, he would not hesitate to do what was necessary. It was just the matter of what they all wanted: and most of them simply wanted to get rich, with a subtle hint of revenge here and there. Len was smart enough to never stand in the way of that, as long as they understood that all of the gold they stole would stay with him for a while before they could take it.

 

His apparent disregard for riches was probably why these warlocks followed him so readily. They knew that his plans usually worked and that if they were patient, leaving the stolen items with Len for a few days, they could gain much more in the future. Most of the stolen goods were stored in a room downstairs, and after he was done with all the gold the warlocks came to pick up their share. If any of them found it curious that all he ever seemed to do with the items he chased was to keep them for a short while and then simply stop caring about all of it, nobody ever said anything and Len was grateful for the silent understanding.

 

It took a bit more time to adjust the plan, which mostly consisted of ‘sneak in through one of the mirrors, try not to get noticed, grab the items and go’. Len couldn’t say he was completely confident in this sorry excuse for a strategy. They didn’t know the whole layout of the house, and they could only guess at the security measures taken to protect the marquis’ treasury. Magical defenses could be in place, plus allowing Shawna and Mark to tag along could backfire at any time – but if the only other option was to watch the valuable items get carted away and melted down or otherwise scattered… Len had to take this risk, for Lisa.

 

……

 

The house was eerily quiet when Barry snuck downstairs.

 

He spent most of the day reading: for a moment he thought that the tray of food at his doorstep in the morning meant that Len was back, but when Barry peeked into the kitchen, it seemed as deserted and cold as the day before. He decided not to push his luck again by searching the house, in case there were some other forbidden parts that he could accidentally discover. Staying in his room at all times wasn’t a part of his deal with Cold, but Barry did not feel safe enough to roam the empty house anymore.

 

He ended up taking a few medical books back to his room, even if they couldn’t hold his attention for long. His thoughts kept coming back to the deal he made, and to the family and friends he was unlikely to see ever again. Up until the events of the previous day, Barry believed that maybe he could just do whatever Cold wanted him to do, serve his time, offer up his blood or something, and he would be able to return. It wasn’t a conscious belief – he thought that he’d got rid of all the hopes of ever coming back when he had stepped through the manor’s gates. And yet, when Cold appeared in Barry’s room and he offered to stay forever in exchange for the safety of his loved ones, the permanence of his current predicament descended onto him like an avalanche, suffocating him under its rigid weight.

 

He would never see his parents again, never return to the university, to Caitlin and Cisco. He would not be there for Iris’ wedding – it might have been a blessing in disguise if Barry were the kind of a person who would rather avoid the pain of unrequited love than participate in his best friend’s happiest day. But he wasn’t: he wanted to be there, to see Iris giddy with joy, even if her happiness was held in the hands of a man other than him. He wanted to heal people, help them like his father; he wanted a life for himself that did not include wasting away alone. The last thought made Barry’s breath surprisingly short: he didn’t want to be alone, and the possibility of Len never coming back struck him with unexpected force. Len was his only lifeline, his only reminder that humanity still existed outside of these walls, that Barry was not dead yet even if he would have to be buried in this place forever. Barry couldn’t even imagine spending the rest of his life here without anyone to talk to.

 

Under the weight of these thoughts reading became impossible. His eyes scanned sentences while his mind refused to absorb the meaning of the words. He tried, nevertheless, because books were his only refuge now, just like they had been years ago. As a boy, he used to be teased for being the thinnest, the slowest, never good enough at the games other boys played outside. Books had saved him then, gave him a whole new world to explore – but even with the vastness of the manor’s library, Barry was not sure that books could save him this time around.

 

When he finally gave up on reading for the day it was already dark outside. The magical fire made his room cozy at all times but it couldn’t help with hunger. Despite the unease tightening his stomach, the last of the breakfast tray had disappeared hours ago and Barry decided to brave the kitchen for at least an apple or two.

 

He was halfway down the stairs when he heard a clatter and a quiet curse. The voice sounded human, and Barry’s heart picked up speed. Could it be…? He took the remaining steps two at a time, hoping to see the familiar face of Cold’s servant – but when he entered the kitchen he could not hold back a gasp.

 

“What happened to you?!” he let out shakily, taking in Len’s hunched form. The man was sitting by the table, his face contorted in pain under the dried blood stains covering his temple and cheek, deadly pale against the dark blue and black of his clothes. His sleeve was torn up and burned at the edges, revealing blistered and bloodied skin of his shoulder and upper arm. A bowl sat on the ground, water soaking into the dust. It looked like Len had been trying to clean his injuries by himself, judging by the wet rag dangling from his fingers.

 

Barry was at his side in seconds.

 

“Go ‘way,” Len muttered, and Barry’s heart stopped at how slurred his speech was. That could not be a good sign.  Even if Barry had not begun to care for Len, the medical student in him couldn’t leave someone in such a state unattended. He crouched in front of Len’s chair, ignoring the man’s wordless, mumbled protests, and raised his hand to Len’s bloodless cheek. His skin was cold, making Barry frown in concern.

 

“Len. Can you hear me? Look at me, please. Just… yes, that’s good.”

 

His pupils were dilated but even, and Barry held up two fingers:

 

“How many?”

 

“Ten,” Len grunted half-heartedly. Barry resisted the urge to swat at his knee for the infantile joking.

 

“I need to know if your vision is blurry or doubled. Can you answer me?”

 

Len shook his head and visibly winced. Barry decided to take that as a ‘no’ to the vision trouble instead of a stubborn ‘no’ to the help. He stood up to check Len’s head – there was a graze along his hairline, starting just over his temple, but it seemed like it looked worse than it actually was. It would need cleaning, but Barry could do that even with the limited supplies here.

 

“Turn this way,” he ordered, and Len moved, sluggish and unwilling and in the wrong direction, as if he was trying to hide his injuries instead of letting Barry inspect them.

 

“Len,” Barry sighed. “Before I came here, I studied medicine. I can help you. But you have to let me, do you understand?”

 

The older man shot Barry a suspicious look, then shook his head. “It’ll heal.”

 

“Of course it will – but it’ll heal a lot faster and cleaner if you let me have a look. Now don’t make me use force.”

 

Even if Barry’s threat was meant mostly as a joke, Len’s skeptical look still smarted a bit.

 

“You couldn’t take me.”

 

It was ridiculous that he was focusing on such a thing, despite how hurt he was. Something about the way he held himself, stiff but still proud, made Barry’s respect for him grow.  Or it would have, if Barry wasn’t frustrated at the man’s inability to accept help. Probably came from being locked up in a warlock’s manor for who knew how long.

 

“With you like this?” Barry rose to the challenge. “I’m sure I could.”

 

Len didn’t protest further, and Barry took it for what it was – the best agreement he was likely getting out of the man. He picked up the bowl from the ground to get some more water from the barrel in the kitchen’s corner, thinking about boiling it before cleaning the wounds - and he could really do with some herbs.

 

“Do you have any medical supplies?”

 

“Huh?” Len was losing focus again, and Barry frowned.

 

“Medical supplies. Bandages, herbs, tinctures…?”

 

Len gave him a long look, but Barry refused to budge on this – maybe Len expected him to suddenly say that they could make do with cold water and basically no medicine. Tough luck there, Barry thought as he stared at the other man defiantly. After just a moment, Len let out a ragged sigh and inclined his head in the general direction of the dining room and entrance hall.

 

“Basement,” he said, tone clipped and tight as if he was keeping himself from making a pained sound. “Go past the supplies… past the wine barrels. There’s a door. Small room, got herbs.”

 

“Will you wait here?” Barry asked, carefully repeating the instructions in his head to remember. He didn’t really believe Len would be capable of running off in his state, and anyway, there weren’t many places to hide in the house, but he would really rather have the injured man comply and wait instead of having to chase him through an evil warlock’s mansion.

 

Len nodded – Barry heard him sneer when he turned towards the dining room. Len probably evaluated his chances of running the same way Barry had. After all, if he hadn’t run from Cold all these years, what would be the point of running from someone who was actually trying to help him? As Barry thought of Cold, it brought him to an important question – how did Len _get_ injured, in the first place? His arm was unmistakably burned, and Barry thought back to the magical fire in his own room. Could it be that Cold knew some fire spells after all? Or did Cold work with other warlocks…? And if so – what was Len doing when he got hurt? Did he just get caught in the middle of a dispute between the warlocks by accident?

 

That kind of thinking wasn’t going to help him patch Len up, though: Barry stopped his mind from wandering as he descended the narrow stone steps leading to the basement. A couple of torches on the walls illuminated the labyrinth of crates and barrels and sacks: at a second glance, Barry saw that the flames were dancing in dry iron braziers, no oil, no wood, nothing that would naturally help the fire burn. They must’ve been the same sort of magic that warmed Barry’s bedroom; he shuddered at the thought of a warlock who could make fire out of thin air, and focused on finding his way. Soon enough, he found the wine barrels Len had mentioned, shielding a narrow doorway from sight. Thankfully, the door wasn’t locked, and Barry ducked down to step into the room.

 

It must’ve belonged to a healer before, by the sight of it. Herbs hung in neat rows under the low ceiling and one wall was completely covered with haphazard shelving that held tiny vials and big, round bottles, dusty glass jars and unmarked containers. Barry reached for a bundle of lavender hanging almost in his face, and cursed under his breath when it immediately crumbled in his fingers, fine herb dust swirling in the light of the magical torches. He should have known better than to expect too much of this place. Everything here was way past its prime and Barry should have anticipated that any herbs this house might have held would’ve outlived their usefulness a long time ago.

 

With a sigh, he rooted through the shelves for a moment, but in the end, the only thing he had to show for his visit was a roll of what he hoped were clean bandages, and a nice stone mortar and pestle. He took it all upstairs, trying to keep his ears open for any sounds that might indicate Cold was back… when he didn’t hear anything, he walked back to the kitchen with a determined frown on his face.

 

Len looked halfway ready to drop: Barry offered him water and held the cup to Len’s lips while the man drank, despite the glare he got for the trouble.

 

“Do you know if Cold’s back?” Barry asked when the cup was empty.

 

Suspicion narrowed Len’s half-lidded eyes even further. “Why?”

 

“Because there’s nothing I can use down there… but I saw some chickweed and ribwort on the road to the house. And I’m gonna go out and get it, but first I’d like to know what are the chances of the warlock catching me in the act.”

 

“Not a great chance of that, no,” Len offered, trying to smirk again even though his brow was visibly glistening with sweat now.

 

“Good,” Barry stood up and marched towards the front gates before he could talk himself out of it. They had a deal, Cold and him – and Barry didn’t intend to break it and put his loved ones in danger, but he couldn’t just sit and watch Len’s wounds get infected without at least a semblance of proper treatment. If Cold came back he could see this as an attempt to escape… all Barry could do was hurry and hope that the warlock didn’t return just yet.

 

He found the ribwort almost instantly; chickweed took a little more searching, and Barry had originally held hope for some witch-hazel, but he did not dare wander too far off the road, into the deep forest. He glanced at the house, half-hidden in the embrace of the gnarled branches, and his eyes strayed to the winding path that led back to his house, to his parents. For a moment, his heart clenched painfully as he imagined his mother, sitting at their fireplace with a cup of tea, his father close to her, reading some book or another. Longing for such familial peace tightened Barry’s throat, but he turned back towards the house through sheer willpower, forcing himself to clench his jaw instead of his fists so he wouldn’t damage the precious herbs.

 

He would do anything to see his family again, but if the cost for lessening his heartache was their safety, he was not willing to take that risk. Nonetheless, when Barry stepped through the front gate of the house he couldn’t help but feel like he was deliberately trapping himself all over again.

 

Len remained quiet when Barry returned to the kitchen, his responses sluggish and half-hearted when Barry asked where he could find some vinegar for the herbs. He crushed the dark green leaves a little and then knelt in front of the older man again, keeping his voice calm.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

Len’s smirk was a little pained, but his ability to produce even such a crooked smile was reassuring, in a way. “Great.”

 

Barry rolled his eyes a little before he reached to the table for a knife. His fingers hovered uneasily over Len’s injured skin: he knew he could help Len recover, but Barry still hated causing anyone pain, even if it was the healing kind.

 

“This is gonna sting,” he warned. Len’s steely eyes spoke volumes about how it wouldn’t be the worst he’d ever had, so Barry started cutting away the ragged edges of Len’s ruined sleeve, trying to be gentle as he methodically separated torn fabric from angry red skin and shiny blisters.

 

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” he muttered as he worked, half curiosity, half need to keep Len awake and alert.

 

“No.”

 

“It was Cold, wasn’t it,” Barry sighed and decided that the shirt couldn’t be saved anyway, cutting a long line down the front of it.

 

“This look like frostbite to you?” Len huffed and glanced pointedly down at his chest when Barry pulled the ruined fabric away. The skin underneath was covered in scorch marks and a few blisters, though nowhere near as bad as his arm and shoulder. Barry frowned.

 

“Considering there’s fire in my room now that doesn’t need to be fed, I don’t think it’s that far-fetched an idea.”

 

“Heatwave,” Len muttered, and Barry blinked a little, leaning closer.

 

“What did you-“

 

“Heatwave. A fire warlock. Cold works with him sometimes.”

 

It wasn’t like Barry hadn’t thought of this before, a warlock who could make fire happen out of nowhere, but having the idea confirmed was definitely not reassuring. Barry’s hands stilled for a moment as he pondered the risks of having someone like that come into the house – and apparently he had, if the fire in Barry’s room was any indication.

 

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Len spoke, barely audible. Barry looked up to the man’s eyes only when a blood-stained hand covered his own, which was still hovering over Len’s chest with a knife. Len must’ve noticed Barry’s pause at the mention of Heatwave – but Barry couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, even if Len’s eyes were telling him that he was safe.

 

“I don’t have to be afraid of the man who burned your skin off?” Barry chuckled, but the joke he was going for cracked into slight hysteria. He’d already been afraid for his life and his family’s safety when there had only been one warlock. But if Cold really worked with more of them… who knew how dangerous this could become? Barry’s stomach lurched at the thought of how easily Cold could’ve come home to find Barry missing; how easily Barry could’ve brought Cold’s wrath upon his family.

 

It was more than likely that only Len’s fingers curled tight around his hand prevented him from accidentally scratching either of them with the blade. Len must have sensed his distress, because his grip slipped a little, and before Barry knew it, he was surrendering the handle to the man, hearing the echo of the knife’s dull clank against the table’s surface as if from a great distance.

 

“Barry, look at me.”

 

He didn’t know when he had glanced away: he wasn’t even sure if he was seeing anything except the horrible scenarios playing in front of his eyes. It wasn’t like he’d never thought of what would happen if Cold turned against him, against his family, but now, the images came unbidden, bright with the fire of this other warlock, heartbreaking with the screams of Barry’s family and friends, burned alive.

 

“Barry,” Len was repeating his name, his fingers scratchy with crusty blood when he touched Barry’s cheek. “You don’t have to worry. Heatwave’s… he’s no worse than Cold.”

 

“I can see that,” Barry choked, his eyes straying to the blistered skin of Len’s arm. Did that mean Len got hurt often? Did it mean this wasn’t the worst he’d ever had from the warlocks? The thought didn’t do much to reassure Barry of his safety.

 

Len followed his gaze with a weary sigh.

 

“I got in the way. He was using his powers, and… it just happened. He wasn’t planning to hurt _me_.”

 

Something about the way Len said it, the way he emphasized that last word, made Barry frown and search Len’s face for the truth.

 

“So he was planning to hurt someone else?”

 

Len’s expression tightened, closed off; Barry bit his lip and looked away. It wasn’t his place to question Len about what he’d been doing out there with the warlocks. Len was Cold’s servant, a prisoner here like Barry… chances were that he hadn’t had much say in whether or not to help with whatever Cold and Heatwave had been doing. Len didn’t deserve to bear the blame for this. What he _did_ deserve was to have his wounds cleaned and to be allowed to rest and recover.

 

“I’m sorry,” Barry mumbled, shaking his head and reaching for the mortar with crushed herbs, as well as for the bandages. “I’ll just… wrap you up and we can go to bed.”

 

Len still wore his tight grimace, but Barry chose to ignore that for now as it could be just the man trying not to let on that he was in quite a bit of pain. And even if it wasn’t just that… Len was obviously in no shape to talk. Barry could wait – there were so many questions he had, and at least one more apology to be offered about what he’d screamed at Len just a couple of days ago.

 

He focused on spreading the poultice evenly, keeping his touch as light as possible; Len still sucked in a sharp breath here and there. The bandages had to go all the way around the torso to cover Len’s shoulder and keep the fabric from slipping; from Barry’ kneeling position, with Len’s knees bracketing his sides, it was easy to circle the man’s body with his arms to grab the roll of bandages behind Len’s back. Up close, Len smelled like fire, blood, and sweat, a hint of leather and gunpowder and warmth. Barry steadily kept his eyes on his hands, on the bandages, making sure they were tight but not too much, and when he was finished, he couldn’t quite explain the slight relief when he backed away from Len, smiling a bit.

 

“All done. Can you stand? I’ll help you to your room.”

 

“No need,” Len shook his head, but he leaned heavily against the table as he slowly stood, and Barry could see his knees weren’t holding him up as well as they should. Len must’ve realized that, too. He shot a frown Barry’s way and huffed, probably noticing the amused grin on Barry’s face.

 

“Alright, I _might_ need a little help.”

 

Barry stepped to the older man and wrapped his hand around Len’s torso while Len’s uninjured arm rested lightly against Barry’s shoulder. They moved slowly, with Barry not used to walking with Len’s weight against him even if Len tried his best not to lean on him too heavily. After they made it up the stairs, one at a time, Barry turned to the other man.

 

“Which room’s yours?”

 

A strange expression flickered over Len’s face – Barry ascribed it to the discomfort of his injuries – and he let go of Barry’s shoulder for just a second, waving towards the corridor where Barry was staying too.

 

“Down there. I can manage from here.”

 

“No,” Barry frowned. The other man must’ve been truly exhausted or hurting because the anticipated protests never came. They stopped again in front of a room just two doors down from Barry’s, and Len made an attempt to disentangle himself from the supporting hold, but Barry was having none of that. He wasn’t going to risk Len falling and aggravating his wounds, so he pushed the door open without asking for permission.

 

It wasn’t just the absence of a magical fire that made the room feel chilly. It was similar to Barry’s room, with cool greys and blues instead of rich cream and crimson, clean and simple, the bed perfectly made. But there were no personal items around, nothing to lend the impression that a person lived here, and Barry felt himself shiver. He’d expected… he didn’t even know what. It was unlikely that a servant would have a portrait of his family somewhere, or many personal possessions, but this room made Barry feel like he was standing in a prison cell.

 

And to some extent, that was exactly what this was – maybe Len purposely kept his room that way, cold and sterile and devoid of anything to make him feel at home. Maybe this was his attempt at reminding himself that he was kept here against his will, just like Barry; he instantly felt bad for the older man again and wished he could simply ask about this, about how Len got here and why it seemed like he was punishing himself for things that were not his fault.

 

“You can go now,” Len tore him out of his musings, blue eyes studying Barry from a distance that was not nearly as great as Barry was used to. He stepped away in nervous haste and Len staggered a little before sitting down heavily on the bed.

 

Barry suddenly craved the warmth of his fireplace, even if it was the work of a crazy warlock.

 

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

 

Len shook his head and made an attempt at a smile. “No. Go to sleep.”

 

Barry was almost at the door when he heard the older man mutter a quiet ‘thanks’ – it sounded like Len did not want to truly acknowledge his gratitude, though, so Barry let it go and smiled a little over his shoulder, pushing away the concern for the man’s well-being as he reached for the door. It wasn’t like he could do much more here, anyway.

 

“I’ll come check on you in the morning. Good night.”

 

……

 

“So now you’re not even staying in your own- you’re hurt!” Lisa’s tone went from admonishing to startled the second she appeared in Len’s current lodgings. She must’ve been worried when he hadn’t come to her room: he usually went to check on her after a heist, never quite content until he knew his sister was safe and sound.

 

Len rolled his eyes at her yelp, scratching absently at the bandages.

 

“It’s nothing. I’ll heal.”

 

“Lenny,” she exhaled the name the way most people released a heartfelt ‘fuck’. “You overexerted yourself again, didn’t you?! With your powers. Will you never learn? You know you don’t heal so well when you do that.”

 

Len frowned: he didn’t like to be reminded of his vulnerabilities. It was bad enough that he’d had to let Barry see him in such a state and even take care of him.

 

“I miscalculated,” he forced through gritted teeth. “My bad.”

 

Lisa frowned and crossed her translucent arms. “It was Mick, wasn’t it.”

 

Not much secrecy there: the shirt he’d pulled off his body lay crumpled on the floor where he’d tossed it, unwilling to risk standing up from the bed, but what was left of it was visibly burned. One glance at it stole away any chance of successfully lying to her, even though Lisa couldn’t smell the acrid stench of fire, smoke and blood that clung to Len’s skin.

 

“You know how he gets,” he shrugged a little and shifted against the pillows. He couldn’t have brought Barry to his current room due to the fact that Barry was officially forbidden from entering the north wing, so he’d chosen his old room, the one he had grown up in, as camouflage. The dip of the mattress under him was familiar, even comforting to some extent, but he would’ve preferred to sleep in his actual room anyway, if only to stay closer to Lisa. “Mick didn’t do it on purpose.”

 

“It doesn’t matter!” Lisa gasped, more exasperated than worried now. “He keeps doing it and you keep forgiving him. But this time I’m talking to him. He can’t-“

 

“Just drop it, Lis. I’ll be fine.”

 

“Yeah? When? What if someone finds this place while you’re indisposed? What are you going to do, Lenny? You have to start taking better care of yourself. Or at least let that kid help you heal, with proper medicine – you could show him the mirrors-“

 

“No,” Len interrupted sharply, glaring at Lisa’s shimmering face.

 

“Afraid he’ll run?” she smirked – it only made Len sigh, and his weariness was apparently not the reaction she’d been waiting for, because she huffed, visibly annoyed:

 

“I’m going to be so pissed if you get yourself killed!”  

 

She dissipated into thin air and Len sighed again, hoping that Sam wouldn’t use the mirror in the room as a way of pestering him tonight. He really needed to sleep, and try to regain his strength… even though he wasn’t sure how he would explain to Barry if his wounds were completely healed in the morning.

 

Not that there was much chance of that: Len knew that he had used up most of his magic tonight, trying to salvage what he could in the burning mess of the marquis’ home. Len had tried to hold the proverbial fort while they all made their escape, and then he’d wasted crucial seconds arguing with Mick, who’d wanted to stay and watch everything burn, again. In the end, Len had been the last to jump through the mirror to get to safety, after everyone else had disappeared to their desired locations with far less fire damage on them than there was on Len.

 

He just hoped none of his rogue warlocks would decide to pay him a visit in the next few days: it was unlikely, since they tended to stay away from each other so soon after a job, but it could happen, and Len did not really fancy the idea of showing them his weakness. He was lucky that Barry thought him a mere servant, too… Len could only imagine what Barry would do to him if he knew Len was the dreaded warlock, currently powerless and nearly human. A part of Len’s mind was protesting the thought, whispering that Barry would’ve helped him anyway… but it was an uncomfortable and tiny part, one that he’d never been able to completely erase, one that remembered that _some_ humans weren’t so bad, and Len refused to succumb to the empty, useless hopes tonight.

 

Hopeful or not, he was powerless at the moment; which meant playing the role of an ordinary servant. Somehow, Len couldn’t find it in himself to mind: at least now, he would have several days to talk to Barry, like he had originally wanted to…


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my birthday gift to you guys lol :D (not that I wouldn't update anyway... ah well, enjoy XD)

Len slept badly that night. The burns kept itching and stinging, making any position he could think of severely uncomfortable. He finally gave up when the skies began to lighten; instead of trying to force his body to sleep, he took advantage of once again staying in a room with an actual mirror and he contacted Sam to make sure that the treasures he had left in the mirror world, along with his Cold cloak, were safe and sound.

  
“If you’re at all curious,” Sam huffed, his image shifting a little to the side to escape the glare of the rising sun against the mirror’s surface, “Lisa’s fine, you can stop panicking.”

 

Len frowned.

  
“You should watch your tone,” he warned, not liking Sam’s suggestions that he didn’t care about Lisa enough, or that he wasn’t worried about her as much as he should be. He knew he could have been a better brother to her all those years ago, but he was doing whatever was in his powers to make up for their past and to help her.

  
“Or what?” Sam sneered. “You need me and you know it.”

  
“I can ride or walk.” Len pointed out, then added in a falsely sweet voice: “I wonder how you would pine after Lisa without any mirrors around? Oh, I know – from _afar_.”

 

“You wouldn’t,” Sam grunted, but his eyes betrayed a hint of worry. Cold was not someone to mess with. “Lisa would never forgive you.”

  
“Maybe – but as long as she’s asleep, she can’t do much to stop me. You would do well to remember that,” Len shrugged and waved his hand, dismissing Sam from the room. The mirror warlock reluctantly disappeared, leaving Len staring at the familiar, yet odd reflection of a tired, pale man with impressive dark circles under his eyes.

 

Oh, how he hated being powerless – he had to be careful not to show any weakness anywhere Sam could see. Lisa was the only one who knew about the possibility of Len exhausting his powers and basically becoming an ordinary, vulnerable human: Len intended to keep it that way. He didn’t think Lisa would announce his weakness to anyone - she was smarter than to divulge such sensitive information and not just because she loved her older brother. No. Lisa was smart enough to know that if anything happened to Len, there was no one else to take care of her. Sam worshipped the ground she floated over but in the end, there was very little he could do outside of his mirror world. Mick might try, but the man was impulsive and incendiary. Len suspected, with an uneasy chill down his spine, that Mick would sooner burn Lisa to death in a spectacularly awful accident than help her recover from the curse. As for the other rogue warlocks, Len wouldn’t trust them as far as he could throw them, not with Lisa’s life. Shawna, Mark, Axel and Hartley were all far too focused on their own personal goals to help an unconscious cursed girl.

 

A knock on the door roused Len from his darker thoughts and he called out a simple ‘come in!’ before stepping away from the mirror. Barry’s head appeared in the doorway just a moment later, with a sheepish grin and tousled hair that strangely reminded Len of his childhood, when neither Lisa nor he would be allowed out of their room until they were made presentable. The kid didn’t come from such a household, though… Len found the slight bit of carelessness oddly refreshing.

  
“Good morning,” Barry spoke softly, as if he worried that a loud voice would somehow hurt Len further. “Have you slept at all?”

 

Len opened his mouth to give Barry an easy white lie, but he found himself disarmed by the kid’s open expression and the truth made its way past his lips before he could stop it.

  
“Not much. Kept trying not to scratch,” he waved towards the bandages and Barry nodded:

  
“If it makes it any better, the itching means it’s healing?”

  
Len raised an eyebrow at the kid and Barry chuckled:

  
“Yeah, I didn’t think it would. I made breakfast, though?” he slipped out of the door before Len could properly express skepticism at that statement, and came back with a tray that smelled like something that had crossed paths with Heatwave somewhere along the way. Len couldn’t help but scoff when the kid set down the tray. The blackened chunks of bread, accompanied by extremely uneven slices of apples and cheese, didn’t look particularly appetizing.

  
“What _is_ this?”

  
“Breakfast,” Barry had the audacity to name the heinous disaster. “I thought you should probably rest, so I brought it up here for you.”

  
“You shouldn’t have.”

  
“It wasn’t a problem – well, there was no wood left in the kitchen so I had to try and toast the bread over the fire in my room-“

  
Len couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that.

 

“You made breakfast over magical fire.”

  
“Yes?”

  
“Nobody ever tell you it’s not a good idea?”

 

Barry’s forehead wrinkled in thought as he shook his head.

 

“No?”

  
“Well, it’s not,” Len snorted. “Magical fire leaves residue, that’s why it’s only used for heating and light, not to cook.”

 

Technically, it was because the residual magic caused havoc in an ordinary human’s body – Len honestly had no idea if he as a warlock with currently exhausted powers would get indigestion from food prepared over magical fire. But seeing as the lumps of coal that used to be bread would likely cause indigestion on their own, without the presence of any magic, Len wasn’t going to experiment on that front this morning.

 

“Come on,” he sighed and rose to his feet, waving at the tray. “Take this disaster and let’s go get something that won’t make us sick.”

 

Barry frowned and huffed, but followed the orders and trailed after Len towards the kitchen.

 

“It’s not like I ever cooked before,” he mumbled defensively and Len secretly smiled to himself while Barry couldn’t see.

  
“I thought you said your family wasn’t rich – did that mean you only had one cook and two maids?” he teased and chuckled for real when the kid ended up spluttering behind him.

  
“No! We didn’t have any servants. But my mother cooked, and then we had a mess hall for meals at the university.”

  
“How was it?” genuine curiosity prompted Len to ask: there had been no university in his time, and he didn’t have any opportunity to look at the institution from up close yet.

  
“Um… we had a lot of porridge?”

  
Was there any other way to react to that except with an eye-roll?

  
“I meant the university.”

 

The kid heaved a heartfelt sigh. Silence fell over them as Len tossed the black lumps of bread to the now-empty fireplace – with only one hand available, it took a while, but Barry still didn’t speak. Len picked up an apple slice and chewed on it, trying to give the kid enough time to think, but there were only so many apple bits without any charcoal breadcrumbs on them. When the silence stretched a little too far, Len glanced at Barry again.

  
“You don’t have to talk about it,” he said softly. “Let’s go get some firewood so we can cook ourselves something edible.”

 

He pushed away from the table, but Barry’s voice stopped him halfway across the kitchen.

  
“I want to tell you…” Barry ran his hand through his hair, tousling it even more. “But whenever I think about that place, all I see is that I’ll never go back. So just… give me a moment here, alright?”

 

Len offered a wordless nod and motioned for Barry to follow him back, to the narrow door hidden in the shadows of the servant staircase. There was no lock guarding this entrance: Len’s magic basically surrounded the whole house and he would know if anyone got foolish or brave enough to sneak in. He walked out first and held the door open for Barry… who inhaled sharply when he stepped outside, and Len had to fight off a small, smug smirk that tugged at his lips.

 

After all, the ice garden was not the work of Len the Servant.

“Woah,” Barry released the breath that sounded like he’d been holding it for a moment, and his eyes were wide and bright with wonder. Len followed his gaze briefly, to the crystalline branches and translucent petals glistening in the warm early-morning light, to the thin blades of grass turned white with frost, mingling with tiny icicles and glassy stalks. In this particular hour of the day, everything in the garden resembled pure crystal, the light catching against the edges of the ice trees’ bark or glinting like tiny diamonds on the sharp points of ice roses’ thorns.

 

“My father mentioned something like this, but it’s so much more beautiful than I imagined it,” Barry stepped forward in a daze, his voice just a reverent whisper as he reached out his hand towards a rose bush, then turned around sharply to Len, pulling his hand away.

  
“Sorry, I-”

  
“You can touch,” Len spoke softly, strangely captivated by the sight of Barry appreciating his creation like a miracle. Knowing that no such garden existed anywhere else in the world was one thing… watching someone take it in for the first time, no fear, no worry, just pure wonder, that was quite another.

 

Barry’s fingers trailed against the edges of the crystal roses, his expression soft, too warm for all the ice around him. When one of the flowers broke off and crashed to the ground, smashing into dozens of ice shards, Barry yanked his hand away with a startled yelp.

  
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! It just-“

  
“No worries, it doesn’t matter,” Len muttered and stepped closer to Barry, reaching for the same rosebush. As he dragged his fingers over another rose, one crystal-like petal fell into his palm and he held it up for Barry to see. He watched the petal slowly melt against his skin, fascinated by the process: his hands were so rarely warm enough to cause harm to his garden.

 

“Everything here looks like ice, but it’s a form of magic,” he told the kid and tilted his hand just enough to let the small puddle formed in his palm drip to the ground. “The plants can wilt, the trees lose leaves in the winter… one flower is nothing to worry about.”

  
Barry’s eyes were fixated on the shards of a rose under his feet for a moment. It was a lot to take in, a garden that looked like ice but could grow and wilt and _live_ , however strange that was… but when Barry looked at him again, close enough to make Len’s breath catch, his face betrayed far less wonder and far more frustration than Len would have expected.

  
“So… it’s not a big deal if the flowers break?” Barry asked, his voice tight, and Len felt like he was missing something. He searched the depths of Barry’s eyes, the only dash of green in his peculiar garden, for any signs… but there was nothing to tell Len what to say.

 

“They can grow again,” he said in the end, because maybe Barry’s strange behavior was caused by worrying about the garden – oh, how wrong he was.

 

Barry’s expression darkened and Len could see his shoulders tensing in a matter of seconds.

  
“Let’s go get the firewood,” the kid’s tone was clipped as he turned away from the garden. Len frowned.

  
“What’s wrong?”

  
“Is it stacked somewhere around here?” Barry pushed the words out through gritted teeth and Len reached out to touch his arm:

  
“Barry-“

  
“Don’t you get it?” the kid snapped as he whirled around, glaring at Len and spreading his arms, encompassing the whole garden with the gesture. “All of this, it doesn’t matter! It will grow back, it’s just flowers and trees and grass, and yet Cold attacked my father because he broke off a single rose! How is that fair? He could’ve been hurt, he said that the ice nearly burned his fingers – he’s a doctor, what would he have done without a hand?! And you know what the worst part is? I thought that maybe, somehow, this was important,” he gestured to the garden again, releasing an annoyed scoff, “that maybe my father actually did something wrong – but all he did was try to save my mother, and-“

 

His voice broke off and he turned to the side, Len’s hand falling away from his shoulder. Len didn’t reach out to touch the kid again; it wasn’t easy to listen to Barry releasing his frustration and hatred towards Len himself, without even knowing it.

 

So many people hated Cold – every nobleman Len had robbed, every person who got hurt in one of the heists, every good citizen fearing the monsters that came out at night with their wicked powers. And yet, Len had never once felt the need to excuse or explain his actions, until now. He wanted Barry to understand without saying too much… he needed to defend Cold because no matter how hard he tried to pretend, he was a warlock just as much as he would ever be ‘Len’.

 

“It wasn’t about the rose,” he started, and Barry’s eyes were pure fire when he flashed a glare his way. He kept quiet, though, and Len took it as encouragement to continue. “Your father trespassed on Cold’s property, uninvited.”

  
“What was he supposed to do?! My mother was sick!” Barry yelled and Len almost winced at the sharp tone. He hadn’t argued with someone without knowing he could fall back on his powers in a very long time, and it was a strange, vulnerable feeling. It was ridiculous to assume the fight would get physical with Barry, and even if it did, Len was heavier and thus with an advantage, but Len still didn’t care for being simply human. “Do you mean to tell me that if my father had _knocked_ , I wouldn’t have to be _stuck_ here?!”

 

The words rang in the air and made Len take a step back. It felt petty when Barry put it like that, petty and cruel and unreasonable, and Len had always prided himself on cold, hard logic of his actions. For some reason, though, the truth that hurt the most was that Barry was _stuck_ here against his will, and that wasn’t going to change.

  
“I can’t- I need a moment,” Barry growled and stalked back towards the house, leaving Len alone with his sad crystalline approximation of living things, the lie he had created for himself to feel like his magic did not make him a monster.

  
Len desperately wished his powers would come back soon, so he could retreat to his Cold persona once again – which was just another cowardly way to escape the truth. Barry would never come to like this place: and how could he, when Len himself hated the manor and every memory of it? How could he have been so naïve to imagine that Barry might come to terms with their arrangement, that he might even come… to what? _Like_ Len? The notion was so ridiculous even when he thought about it in concrete words instead of half-formed tentative emotions that Len almost snorted at himself.

 

He bit back a sigh and walked towards the small shed leaning against the manor’s wall. They still needed firewood: even if the kid might always hate this place, he had to eat, and so did Len, in his powerless, human state.

 

……

 

Barry stormed back into the kitchen and kicked at the nearest chair in a show of wordless rage. It toppled and fell to the floor with a loud clatter and Barry desperately wished for something he could just fling against the wall and see it shatter. He shoved his hands into his hair, tightening his fists in the messy strands to the point of pain, but it wasn’t enough to make the anger go away. He had never been this short-tempered, this quick to blow up, but this manor made him feel like the frustration was always bubbling just beyond the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment. And it did; over and over again, Barry took out his helpless irritation on the only person who was there to listen.

 

On the person who didn’t deserve it at all.

 

He could feel the fight leaving him in a sudden rush and he slowly bent over to pick the chair up, then collapsed onto it, letting his elbows rest against the table as he buried his face in his hands. Why did he keep taking it out on Len? The man was no more responsible for Barry’s situation than Barry himself. Possibly even less – it wasn’t Len who made Barry offer a deal to Cold that prevented him from ever leaving this forsaken place. It wasn’t Len who set the rules here, who tricked Barry’s father, who demanded a price far too high for not hurting an innocent man and his wife. None of this was Len’s fault… he had never shown Barry anything but kindness, and here Barry was, screaming at the man to whom he had originally wanted to apologize for his _previous_ outburst.

 

The soft sound of boots falling against the floor was followed by the creak of the kitchen door and Barry twisted in his seat to look over his shoulder. Len stood in the doorway, looking uncertain – a large bucket filled with logs of firewood dangled from his uninjured hand and Barry felt shame burn in his cheeks. On top of it all, he had let an injured man carry logs of wood… such a thoughtful thing to do.

 

“I’m sorry,” they both said at the same time and Barry’s heart almost skipped a beat. Len’s eyes widened impossibly, as if he was honestly surprised that Barry was apologizing. As if the man thought he deserved whatever Barry had told him – and that wouldn’t do, not at all.

  
“Let me…” Barry pushed away from the table, walking to Len to relieve him of the firewood. Their fingers brushed, and Len pulled away from the touch: Barry’s heart broke a little at the sight. Who knew how long Len had been stuck here, alone, with only warlocks for company. Barry might be frustrated that he would never see his friends and family again, but Len didn’t even remember what human contact felt like… and then Barry, the first real person Len had seen in gods knew how long, treated him like Len was somehow responsible for Cold’s awful deeds.

  
“I’m so sorry,” Barry repeated sincerely. “I shouldn’t have said those things. None of this is your fault… I meant to apologize for what I said before. About you being content to be here. It was an awful thing to say, and I’d like to make it up to you somehow. If you let me,” he added, because chances were that Len had had enough of Barry’s anger. The thought of Len not wanting to have anything to do with him made Barry feel even worse – if he screwed up his chances at friendship with the only other human in here…

 

Len shook his head, and Barry’s heart sank.  
  
“No need to apologize,” the man said in a quiet voice, looking away from Barry. “You’re upset. Understandable. I’m sorry you have to be… stuck here.”

 

“I’m not alone,” Barry almost whispered, persistently staring at Len, wishing the man would just look at him and read the sincerity in Barry’s eyes. “Am I?”

  
Something in Len’s expression shifted at that, a shadow that passed before Barry could even try to decipher it. Briefly, Barry wondered how many times Len must’ve wished not to be alone in here, without any memories of a better time, with no hope of safely escaping a crazy warlock. How vast Len’s loneliness must have been… the mere idea resonated within Barry like an awful melody, making him feel his shame with renewed strength.

 

Slowly, the man turned his eyes back to Barry and simply looked, like he was tentatively searching for something in Barry’s face. What was it he sought there – was it understanding? Honesty? Some sort of a reassurance…?

 

And suddenly, Barry knew with painful clarity what he had to say. The one thing that made his blood boil when he thought about it, his own mistake transformed into a chain against his ankle, keeping him in this hated place… it was the one thing that could make it better for _Len_. And however Barry hated it, there was nothing he could do about his deal with Cold – if he could twist it around, use it to make things up to the man in front of him, maybe he could also stop being so angry about it all.

  
“I made a deal with Cold,” he spoke – did he imagine it, or did Len flinch almost imperceptibly at the mention of the warlock’s name? Barry curled his fingers into fists to keep himself steady and forced himself to continue, “and I swore I would stay here. Forever.”

 

The last word felt so final, so definite that Barry’s chest tightened again: but he needed to say it all, lay it out in the open so that Len could do with it what he pleased.

 

“You won’t be alone, from now on. Ever again,” Barry whispered, the words refusing to get any louder, as if the promise he was offering right now wasn’t for this dark, evil house to hear. It was only for Len, and the man’s eyes widened again for a brief moment as he stared at Barry, speechless. His lips split apart, as if he wanted to respond, but he ended up taking a shaky breath and Barry’s heart clenched at the thought of how much it had to mean to a man who had forgotten what it meant to have someone near.

 

Cold was a monster, for doing this to them… and they were prisoners here, no matter how they tried to dress up the truth. But for the first time Barry felt like this heavy, dark cloud could have a silver lining – neither of them had to do this alone.

 

He watched Len’s throat work as the man swallowed and then tilted his chin down in a slow nod, and Barry couldn’t help but smile brightly in response.

  
“Can you build a fire?” Len asked, voice heavy and rough, and Barry chuckled:  
  
“Yeah. I guess you’re not letting me make toasted bread again, are you.”

  
That drew a small smile onto Len’s lips that was two parts reluctant and one part amused before he shook his head and turned towards the door.  
  
“Definitely not. Gonna go get some vegetables, and I’ll show you how to make a basic stew.”

 

Barry watched the man go with a chuckle, then picked up the bucket and carried it to the stove. Better get the fire going before Len got back… all of a sudden, Barry could feel hunger viciously gnawing at his stomach.

 

……

 

_Forever_.

 

Len stalked down the empty halls, the need to get away from Barry for a moment making his steps heavy and quick. He yanked the door to the basement open, carelessly taking the steps two at a time, as if the shadows underneath the manor could hide him from the truth.

 

_You won’t be alone._

 

How cruel could the fate be, to make him feel jealous of himself, of the human, ordinary him that never had the chance to grow and to _be_? His foot slipped on an uneven step and he twisted his body to keep his balance: his shoulder, still wrapped in bandages, collided with the wall and Len let out an annoyed hiss. The pain slowed the world around him a little bit and he had to stop when black spots danced in front of his eyes; he sat down in the dark stairwell, clutching at his hurt arm, his jaw clenched so tight he could hear his teeth grind together.

 

It was absurd: half of what Barry was saying wasn’t even true. His deal with ‘Cold’ stated that Barry should stay for as long as the warlock would need him, and if Len were a better man, a _good man,_ he would let the kid go as soon as his powers returned. Barry hated and feared ‘Cold’ enough that Len did not need to keep up the charade – all he had to do was ask for something stupid, like a drop of Barry’s blood, pretend he needed it for some evil magical ritual that Barry was no doubt envisioning anyway. His reputation would be safe and Barry could return home, to his parents, to his friends, to his studies. To all the people who cared about him, to all the things Barry could do with his life instead of spending time with a bitter old warlock who did not even have enough courage to own up to who he truly was. Barry wasn’t just stuck in this house: he was stuck in the web of lies Len had weaved around them both, and it was all Len’s fault.

 

With a ragged breath, Len pushed himself up, forced himself to get to the basement and think of the ingredients needed for a stew. As he was picking out vegetables, he couldn’t help but snort at himself and his foolish thoughts of releasing his prisoner. Who was he kidding? Times had long passed since he had been good… and he truly couldn’t remember the last time he was even a man, in the truest sense of the word. He was not going to let Barry go, too selfish to even seriously consider it.

 

For far too long, the only thing he wanted, the only thing he _allowed_ himself to want, was to help his sister. Unprepared for anything else, he had been swept off his feet by the unforgiving avalanche that was wanting Barry Allen _here_ ; and now he was buried so deep that he couldn’t move, couldn’t dig himself out because he didn’t even know which way was up.

 

And the worst part was, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to find the way out. For the longest time, he had Lisa – he had her when he was alone, surrounded by people who feared him or were disgusted by him; he had her when everything else fell around him like a house of cards. He had her even when he thought he lost her… and then he had Mick, Mick who’d helped him become stronger and harder, Mick who had been there through the good and the bad, even if there was always far too much of the latter in their lives. Len never truly allowed himself to feel lonely, because the first time he’d felt like that, it had led them all down a dangerous path, too close to a dangerous abyss. He had thrown himself into their work, into the robberies and heists and into saving Lisa’s life… but the truth was, no matter how sternly he told himself that he had more people he could trust now than he had ever before, there had always been something missing.

 

Lisa needed him as her big brother, as her caregiver and savior and protector; Mick needed him as the leader, the planner, the infallible, logical strategist. Nobody needed the ugly, dark side of him, the depths of his heart that swirled with half-forgotten, terrifying emotions, with unwanted wants and selfish longing. And it wasn’t that Barry needed that in him – but the kid was slowly, persistently drawing out the bits and pieces of the broken creature that used to be a real boy once, and Len could only resist so much.

 

He was fucking tired of commanding himself not to be lonely. And in the end, no matter how much he wondered how it would feel to be good, he would lie and cheat and hurt to get what he wanted, because that was the kind of a man he was, and because he had forgotten how painfully, deliriously glorious it was to _want_.

 

………

 

Barry turned his head to the sound of approaching footsteps and stood up from the stove, clapping his hands happily when he saw what Len was carrying.

  
“Man, I’m so hungry- what happened to you?” he yelped and his smile fell when Len turned his back to him, unloading the vegetables onto the table, and Barry could clearly see a dark, wet stain spreading over the upper part of Len’s sleeve.

  
“I slipped.”

  
“You—alright, I’m not going to say anything about how you should be more careful, _this time_ ,” Barry huffed sternly and reached out, tugging at Len’s uninjured arm insistently.

  
“Sit down. We’re going to change your bandages – and you’re going to be good and sit here without saying something stupid like ‘oh, it’ll heal, Barry, I have no medical training but I know so much more than you,’” he finished with a huffy imitation of Len’s speech. It wasn’t a very close approximation – Barry couldn’t make his voice do the gravelly drop that Len could, but it served its purpose when he saw one corner of Len’s mouth twitch.

  
“How do you know?” the man asked, but he obediently sat down and even lifted his arms when Barry started tugging his shirt up.

 

Barry let out a little distracted ‘huh?’ in response, so Len elaborated with a full-blown smirk.

  
“Medical training. How do you know I don’t have it?”

  
“The first clue would be that you tried to cure your burns with a wet rag and time,” Barry snorted. “But for the sake of an argument: do you?”

  
“…no.”

  
“That’s what I thought,” Barry chuckled and dropped Len’s shirt onto the table: it felt strange against his hands, the fabric worn soft and still warm from the heat of Len’s body. A slow shiver passed down Barry’s spine, but he forced himself to think of things he could actually understand, such as helping one stubborn man heal better.

 

He ended up having to run back to the basement to get clean bandages; in the meantime, Len had managed to peel and dice most of the carrots and potatoes. He was cutting a large onion when Barry re-entered the kitchen: he looked up, his hand with the knife stilling in mid-air, his back reflecting the golden-red glow of the fire in the stove. His eyes looked damp in his solemn face: nothing unexpected with the strong scent of fresh onions in the air, but Barry still felt his heart contract at the sight when a small smile cracked Len’s expression open. The urge to touch him, to make sure he was real and alive and here overwhelmed Barry and he masked it all with mock-stern commands to sit down and half-stupid jokes; and if his hands lingered over Len’s warm, human skin a little longer than strictly necessary when wrapping the bandages… well, Barry let himself pretend that Len needed the contact as much as he did.


	6. Chapter 6

“Wrong,” Len huffed from where he was hovering over Barry’s shoulder like an overgrown, disapproving owl. Barry chuckled under his breath and let Len adjust his grip on the knife. It was a perfunctory touch at best, one designed to keep Barry from chopping off his hand along with the tomato, but it had Barry smiling nonetheless. He watched Len’s long fingers as they brushed against his own, repositioning his hold; he followed the line of Len’s arm up and up, over the curve of his shoulder, to his face, only inches from Barry’s own.

  
Len was scowling, but Barry learned to read the lines in this man’s forehead without even realizing he had been etching that knowledge deep into his brain. It wasn’t anger that drew Len’s brow tight – it was concentration at the moment, and Barry wondered if the man always put this much effort, this much of _himself_ , into all the mundane tasks of everyday life. Maybe it was survival, applying himself single-mindedly where routine and muscle memory would work just as well; maybe it was simply the way Len was, quietly fierce even while making lunch.

 

He was beautiful. The thought struck Barry like summer rain, calm and inescapable, warm where it shouldn’t have been. It wasn’t that Barry never had thoughts about men before, but he never paid any mind to an occasional stirring in his gut. He’d always had his love for Iris to guide him through any such feelings – Iris, unattainable and unavoidable, his childhood friend, the woman he had built up in his mind like his own personal castle in the air. With Len so close, though, there was no room to escape the visceral rush of longing that washed over Barry when he let his eyes sweep over the harsh cut of Len’s jaw, softened by a dusting of stubble, barely noticeable from a distance. That was what he knew Len to be – hard edges and strong lines, and then something unexpected, something smooth and gentle, like the plump curves of Len’s lips, half-open and just _there_.

 

Len’s gaze snapped up to him and Barry’s heart missed a step and plummeted a critical inch in the wrong direction at the thought of Len catching him staring like a blushing schoolboy.

  
“Eyes on the knife,” Len huffed; his breath was warm against Barry’s cheek and smelled of basil and parsley and something else Barry couldn’t name that Len had been sprinkling onto the venison currently sizzling in a pan not ten steps from them. He must’ve licked his fingers after he had crushed the herbs for seasoning – Barry had to swallow to fight the sudden tightness in his throat.

  
“Yes, master,” he joked, humor his last line of defense. Len rolled his eyes but didn’t move away when Barry resumed cutting the tomatoes, keeping an eye on Barry’s not-so-steady hands and radiating warmth against Barry’s side.

 

It had started as a joke – Len teaching Barry how to make a stew turned into Len showing Barry how to prepare breakfast without burning it to a crisp. It had started out of necessity, because there were only so many apples they could eat instead of proper meals; Len had a hard time cutting or carrying some things with his stiff, blistered shoulder and Barry was willing to learn, not just out of pure boredom, but also because after he had apologized to Len, it seemed increasingly difficult to _not_ be close to the man, or at the very least, in the same room. Barry would feel itchy and uncomfortable, tense for no apparent reason, if he was left alone for too long. He let himself believe it was similar for Len, who once trailed into the library when Barry was trying to read and simply sat there, picking up a book for himself in complete silence.

 

In the next couple of days, they came to rely on each other, for help and for comfort and for company, and Barry wouldn’t have it any other way, but… there were _moments_. Len would get too close and Barry’s mind would start running in a direction he was not prepared to explore. He wanted to keep Len near him, he could admit as much, at least within the confines of his mind. While trying to imagine anything more than these brief, innocent touches still made his heart race more in fear than excitement, Barry wasn’t deluded enough to think that his feelings for Len were strictly of the platonic kind. And he knew that not all people thought badly of men who enjoyed the company of other men in more-than-friendly ways, but Barry had a feeling Len was not one of the open-minded folk.

 

For one, there were instances when Len would do or say something a little odd and Barry would get the feeling that Len was older than he seemed. It only served to support his theory that Cold purposely kept Len young and useful, or maybe that the inherent magic of this place affected the only human servant in the house. Len had mentioned not feeling cold anymore – another side-effect could be slow aging, which meant that Len could be thirty or ninety and there was no way of telling, since the man did not remember his life before Cold. Barry knew for a fact that the people who regarded physical intimacy between two men or two women with acceptance and understanding were mostly of Barry’s age; the older generations tended towards disapproving frowns or even disgusted twists of their mouths.

 

And then there had been the moment when Barry had let his hand linger over Len’s shoulder a moment too long. He was changing the man’s bandages once more, talking about the healing process and how the wounds seemed to be doing well – and then he made the mistake of looking up and his breath caught a little when he noticed Len watching him with a mixture of puzzlement and fondness. His bright blue eyes were so warm that Barry’s words died in his throat and his hand stilled over Len’s shoulder, his thumb just barely brushing the man’s naked collarbone, right over the edge of the bandages. Barry’s hand moved on its own, just half an inch, itching to touch more skin – and Len coughed and pulled away and stood up, turning his back on Barry and muttering lukewarm, determined thank-yous and good-nights. Barry stumbled out of Len’s room then, a startled deer unseeing the path he was taking until he was back in the relative safety of his own room, staring into the magical fire and dreading the inescapable awkwardness that was sure to follow

 

Except it never came – in the morning, Len treated Barry as he always had, with polite kindness and a bit of gentle mocking as he taught Barry not to get broken eggshells in an omelet; Barry allowed himself to let out the breath he’d been holding since the previous evening. Nevertheless, he could never completely get himself to relax around Len again. He did not dare reach out – he made a conscious effort not to touch Len except when strictly necessary, never for a split second longer. And what an effort it was, to resist the lure: only his fear of becoming too obvious, too invasive kept Barry’s longing for touch at bay. And yet, Len did not keep his distance, did not avoid Barry or turn away from him. Quite the opposite: he kept invading Barry’s space with the oblivious trust of someone who would not dream of Barry betraying that trust by having… _thoughts_.

 

It was Iris all over again, the mind-numbing, all-consuming striving for someone not to _know_ , and Barry had no idea how he got himself into the same situation twice in one lifetime.

 

……..

 

Len was in the library again. Barry did not mind his presence at all – while his eyes kept straying to the man, lingering on his profile, on the slight crease of his brow when he dove particularly deep into a book, it was nice not to feel alone in such a vast space. In his time at the university, Barry often spent long hours among the dusty shelves that towered over him like an endless reminder of how small he was in the face of the knowledge gathered over centuries. He was rarely the only student catching up on vital information or attempting to finish a paper due the next day. Companionship, oddly, made it easier for him to concentrate: and now, Barry found himself finishing his sixth book in just a couple of days since Len first trailed to the library and stayed.

 

He looked up from the last pages of an old tome, wrapped in leather that shone like new but couldn’t be. He had strayed from medical journals some time ago, when he figured out that most of the information on the subject was painfully outdated, often citing blood-letting as a valid medical approach. History caught his eye – while he wasn’t able to locate any books on the history of the arcane, a subject he had taken interest in at the university, the history of this duchy seemed to be represented with outstanding care. Which was what gave him the idea tugging at his mind at the moment, refusing to let go.

  
“Len?” he called out quietly – there was no angry, ancient librarian here to shush him, but the respect for the sacred places of learning had been ingrained in him too deeply to allow for too much noise. Even just between the two of them.

 

Len squinted up from his own book, a collection of heroic poetry as far as Barry could see. “Yes?”

 

“Are there any books on the war?”

 

Len’s eyebrows went up at the question and he cast a brief glance around the room, as if scanning his surroundings could help him remember what kind of information there was in the shelves all around them.  


“You will have to be a little more specific,” he teased, but his smirk felt almost fond, once again, and Barry had to fight down the surge of warmth with which his heart was responding. “The Western conflicts, the Great Arcane War-“

 

Barry shook his head at all of those. “No, I was thinking of the last big one? You know… the Succession War?”

 

Len’s brow tightened in thought, but he remained quiet. Barry blinked.

 

“The Succession War,” he repeated. “Seventh century? You _have_ heard of it, haven’t you?”

  
“Bits and pieces. I’ve never been a great fan of history,” Len waved his hand dismissively, which only fueled Barry’s suspicion.

 

Len generally sounded smart, educated even; but Barry suspected for a while that Len had mostly educated _himself_ by perusing this library and turning his imprisonment, his servitude, into an opportunity to expand his horizons – or maybe simply fighting off boredom. As a result, the knowledge Len had could be chaotic, incomplete, lacking any sort of logical order.

 

Barry was not going to let that deter him in the slightest. If there was a way of figuring out just how old this house was, then maybe they could find clues as to what happened to its previous owners, and possibly even who Len used to be before Cold. Not knowing who he was, who he had been, not remembering anything about his family or his past life had to be awful – Barry always shuddered just thinking about it. And if he had to explain some things before they could find out more, Barry didn’t mind.

  
“Alright,” he shifted to the edge of his seat and stretched his arms over his head; Len’s eyes followed him with that warm expression again, a light smile tucked into the corner of the man’s mouth. Barry had to will his fluttering stomach to settle.

 

“Why do I feel like I’m in for a lecture?” Len chuckled, but he carefully folded a simple strip of leather as a bookmark between the pages and sat back. They weren’t physically close, their armchairs divided by at least ten feet of polished marble and cool air, but having Len’s undivided attention easily bridged that distance.

 

“Not a lecture,” Barry huffed. “But you should keep up to date on current affairs. Even though this one’s not exactly current,” he added. Another unpleasant thought invaded his mind and he cast a furtive glance Len’s way – which made the man shake his head and sigh.

  
“Go ahead and ask, Barry.”

  
“Do you know what year it is?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. And it wasn’t a silly question, no matter how hard Len was rolling his eyes! After all, Barry had no way of knowing how long Len had been trapped in here. If he didn’t remember anything about his past, how should Barry know that he was aware of the time passing by beyond the gates of this manor?

 

“Nine hundred thirteen, Arcane Age – now go on with what you were saying before I decide I’m in no mood for history lessons after all.”

  
“Again. Not a lesson,” Barry grumbled, then let go of the annoyance of being treated like an unreasonable child. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve heard and I can fill in the blanks afterwards?”

 

For a moment, Len’s face twisted into a grimace resembling someone with severe stomach trouble, but he relented in the end (Barry learned just a couple of days ago that Len was pretty much incapable of refusing Barry’s requests, if they were the least bit reasonable – knowledge he did not want to misuse, but it came in handy at certain times anyway).

 

“Very well… there was a Duke, and he and his successors got slaughtered.”

  
“Actually, there has never been any conclusive evidence as to what happened to them,” Barry interjected with a shrug. “But go on?”

  
“That’s really all I’ve got,” Len smirked wryly. “I suppose the name ‘Succession War’ creates a distinct image of what happened.”

 

Barry nodded at that, sorting his thoughts for a moment so he wouldn’t unnecessarily overwhelm Len with dates and names and pointless details.

  
“Three prominent marquises at the time couldn’t settle on who would become the next Duke and the skirmishes quickly turned into an outright war conflict. It took almost a decade – because of it, now there’s a law in place that says every Duke must name a successor in a sealed document immediately upon ascension to the title.”

 

Len’s smirk turned cheeky. “Not that I’m not enjoying your class, Professor Allen, but is this actually going somewhere?”

  
“Yes,” Barry sighed, wondering why he even bothered – no, he knew why. Len deserved to know who he used to be, who he _was_ , if there was even the slightest chance of success. “I was thinking that we could see if we could find the Succession War mentioned somewhere in this library? It’s obvious that this manor must have belonged to an influential family, and from what I’ve seen around here, it seems it might have been abandoned around the time of that war, possibly during or soon after? We could find clues as to which side this particular family took, trace it back to one of the marquises, possibly some of the earls?”

 

“And why would we do that?” Len frowned again and Barry slid further forward in excitement, now barely balancing on the edge of the armchair’s seat.

  
“Don’t you see? If we figure out who owned this house, you might be able to find out who you were! There must be a reason why Cold chose this house, and a reason why you’re here!”

 

“Or he chose the house because it’s remote enough not to be bothered,” Len shook his head, his expression completely blank. Barry didn’t understand how Len could look so grim about the prospect of figuring out his own past – not simply disinterested but dismissive, reluctant to try.

 

“Come on,” Barry urged, “aren’t you the least bit excited?”

 

“Just let it go, kid,” Len sighed and rose to his feet, leaving Barry alone in his stunned silence.

 

Maybe Len did not want to give himself any false hopes… maybe he was just afraid of trying to find out and failing. Maybe he was not sure he even wanted to know – but thinking back to his own family, Barry found it hard not to fixate on the possibility of allowing Len to remember his own. Whether he had the man’s help or not… he would figure this out.

  
Barry took a deep breath and resolutely marched back to the shelves.

 

……

 

The idea of Barry poking around the house in search of ‘clues’ set Len’s teeth on edge. He made a mental note to remove any incriminating genealogies still lying around: while it was unlikely those would be stored in the library, it was only a matter of time before the kid decided to expand his search to other rooms in the house… such as the study downstairs. He reached the grand staircase and looked down the marble steps – he could do it right now, make sure that Barry would never find anything relevant.

 

But Len had more important things to do at the moment. Barry would be buried in books for at least an hour, which was just the time Len needed for the task he had been putting off way too long. He hadn’t done it on purpose, but he needed to know Barry wouldn’t follow him or ask too many questions about why Len was going to the north wing.

 

He didn’t want to think about how much he craved those stolen moments of peace. Hours filled with cooking and talking and reading, sharing meals and comfortable silences. An occasional touch or a glance, smiles exchanged over the table… Len was slowly getting used to having Barry around, completely open in his innocence and always _there_. It was dangerous to think it would last, and Len needed to distance himself soon: but whenever the thought occurred to him, Barry would ask about his injuries, curse under his breath in adorably childish words when he botched something in the kitchen, or simply smile at Len – and the intent would be lost in the rush of warmth flooding Len’s chest and drowning out any semblance of rational thought he had left.

 

_Not yet_ , he kept telling himself. _Just one more day_ , his heart pleaded with his brain even though it knew so much better.

  
And so, he found himself pushing the door to Lisa’s room open a full week after the last heist.

  
“She’s pissed,” Sam informed him immediately upon arrival; Len shot the mirror warlock a steady glare.

  
“I can imagine. Get me the gold,” he commanded and sat down on the chair beside Lisa’s bed, partially glad that he did not have to listen to her accusations. She would be right, too: she should’ve been his priority. He should’ve found the time to see her sooner. At night, after Barry fell asleep, it would have been easy to sneak out of his current bedroom and to the north wing, to the sister who was his responsibility and his drive for everything he did.

 

And yet, he hadn’t. He didn’t want to think about the reasons why.

 

Sam reappeared in the mirror, holding the slightly singed sack that clattered when he rattled it.

  
“Here it is.”

 

Len reached towards the mirror, suppressing the shudder when his hand breached the silky, cool surface. It rippled around his wrist and released the treasures collected in their last heist: Len did not startle as he had the first time when he felt Sam’s fingers accidentally brush against his. The warlock couldn’t get out of his mirrors, but in his reflective world, he was just as physical and solid as anyone else, maybe even more so. Len always refused to think of the mirror world too much – it was both humbling and terrifying to think of Sam being a complete master of anyone and anything who stepped inside, in a way no man, no warlock, could ever master the real world.

 

“Thank you,” Len mumbled and pointedly looked around: Lisa finally materialized in his line of vision, dramatic and shimmery over the end of her bed.

  
“Took you long enough,” she spat, and Len suppressed a cringe. There wasn’t any response, any excuse he could give her, so he simply pulled the first piece of treasure out of the sack.

 

It was a tiara, masterfully decorated with tiny pearls and sparkling gems; Len carefully placed it into Lisa’s limp hand.

 

Tension filled the room – no matter how many times they did this, there was still a surge of hope, expectation… and then the dreaded drop in his stomach when nothing happened. Len took a deep breath, then another, giving it more time, but he knew that it was futile. He moved to retrieve the tiara from Lisa’s hand when her voice halted him:

  
“Wait!”

  
“Lis,” he sighed. “You know it doesn’t work like that.”

  
She didn’t have a good response for that. They both knew how it worked, and yet they kept doing this, lingering over every piece for just a moment more, feeding off of each other’s hopes, ignoring that they were setting each other up for a fall.

 

The tiara fell soundlessly onto Lisa’s comforter as Len bent over to find another piece. Lisa’s voice was quiet when she spoke again.

  
“Are you happy?”

 

“What?” Len sat up and frowned at her projection. “How can you say that? Of course I’m not happy. Lisa, I know I should’ve come sooner, but that doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ these to work,” he waved a tiny gold jewelry box in front of him as emphasis before setting it to her corporeal, motionless hand.

 

They waited for a dozen heartbeats, a couple more deep breaths, but the box remained nothing more than what it seemed.

 

“I meant with him,” Lisa almost whispered when Len picked up the useless jewelry box and dropped it off next to the tiara, beautiful sparkly reminders of yet another failure.

 

A frown crept over his brow and his jaw tightened involuntarily as he glanced at her again.

 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Lenny…”

 

She sounded so much like his mother when she spoke his name like that, like a caress and a comforting embrace. Len barely remembered her, but he hated to be reminded of her when he least expected it, when it struck down his defenses and made him vulnerable.

  
Her eyes flickered to the mirror – Len barely registered a shimmer of motion at the edge of his vision. When he turned to pick up another no doubt useless piece of gold (and he couldn’t think about it like that, he _couldn’t_ lose hope), the silvery glass only reflected the room. The space where Lisa’s projection hovered was empty in the mirrored image, and Len wondered, not for the first time, how difficult it had to be for Sam and his sister: having feelings for each other and never being able to touch.

 

A thought came unbidden that he and Barry were luckier – but then, in a way, it felt the same. Barry would never be able to touch the real him, with all that it meant, all that he was; and if he tried to reach out and touch the kid, he would only end up breaking everything that was good in that innocent heart of his.

 

And since when had he stopped pushing away the thought of _feelings_ when it came to Barry?! The thought startled Len into action and he dropped a massive signet ring into Lisa’s pale palm.

  
“You like him,” Lisa spoke, breaking the unwritten code of waiting and hoping in silence whenever there was a gold piece to try.

  
“He’s very likeable,” Len said off-handedly and resisted the urge to throw the ring across the room. The others would want their share… after he was done raising false hopes in his and Lisa’s heart, he had to distribute the gold and start planning another heist.

  
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  
“Look, Lisa, I just want to get this done,” he snapped at her, suddenly weary of it all.

 

“It’s not like my talking is stopping your hands,” she huffed back. It was never easy, trying to make her let go of something. “You can still listen to me. Or talk to me.”

  
“Such lovely weather we have today, don’t you think?” Len sneered and replaced the signet ring with a heavy ornamental chain. “Is that enough small talk, or should we discuss the changing seasons as well? A bit of poetry, perhaps?”

 

“Don’t be a jerk,” Lisa pouted and floated closer: it looked like she was sitting right next to him, even though there was no chair. It stopped bothering Len years ago. “You know I never judged you, right? For… anything.”

 

Len could practically hear his teeth grinding against each other. Only sheer force of will kept his hands steady and slow when he lifted the useless chain and reached into the sack again.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeated, his voice more a warning than denial. She couldn’t know – but even if she somehow did, Len refused to acknowledge that part of his existence. He had done a stellar job pushing those particular feelings away, and he would not stand for Lisa digging up things he had successfully buried long ago.

 

A moment of silence passed. Len only realized he’d been unconsciously clenching his fist around the slim golden statuette when Lisa sighed and moved away.

  
“How are your injuries?” she asked, smoothly floating into safe territories, and Len was silently grateful that she did not press the issue.

  
“Better.”

  
“Any idea when you’ll have your powers back?”

 

“Judging by past occurrences, I would say in a couple of days,” he shrugged curtly – his skin was still sore and tight, healing at a slow human rate that was both infuriating and humbling. Len never thought much about how ordinary people dealt with injuries, and usually he was careful enough not to burn himself out like this. But on those few unfortunate occasions when it had happened before, his magic had remained dormant until his physical injuries were close to healed.

 

“What will you do then?”

 

Len knew what she was asking; a memory of Barry floated before his eyes, that bright smile, the ringing laughter, the tiny crinkles in the corners of the kid’s eyes when he took Len’s teasing in stride and gave back just as much as he got.

  
“Plan another heist. This one was a bust,” he huffed Lisa’s way. He was not prepared to deal with the unsettling warmth curling in the pit of his stomach when he thought about the kid he was keeping close to him under false pretenses, under a threat he wasn’t sure he would be capable of carrying out if it ever came to that.

 

Lisa drew in a sharp breath – Len turned to her, only to follow her gaze to the motionless body in bed. He had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Barry that he wasn’t even looking at the last piece, a massive brooch he had dropped into Lisa’s hand earlier.

 

Tiny wisps of white-gold rose from the golden surface, weaving through Lisa’s limp fingers and around her wrist, up her arm. Her pale skin soaked the magic up like a withering flower would soak up rainwater, and Len’s breath caught in his throat. Could it be that _this time_ , it would be enough? Could this be the last piece…?

 

The thought of having his sister physically within his grasp again made his heart skip a beat. He sat in silence and he longed to reach for Lisa’s hand, but he could _not_ deal with feeling his fingers slip through hers at this moment.

 

It did not take long. The magic settled into Lisa’s skin – for a single moment, there was a glimmer over her body that made Len shift to the edge of his seat involuntarily.

  
And then… silence.

 

Len bit his lip and swallowed hard, his heart like a terrified rabbit in his chest. He gave himself a moment, gathering the courage to turn his head just a little to the side-

  
“It didn’t work,” Lisa whispered. Her body remained motionless, and Len looked at her projection, still hovering not two feet from him. Her translucent fingers were trembling in the air and Len, not for the first time, felt the fierce need to gather her in his arms. It was ironic, really – how many times had he passed up the opportunity to wrap her up in an embrace, to make her feel how much he loved her? How many times had he told himself she knew that, she _had_ to know? He’d kept telling himself it didn’t matter, that he was protecting her by staying away, that she was better off without him. And now that he had overcome everything that had been keeping him away from her, he was denied the privilege of giving her comfort in times of need.

 

And it was all his fault. Every new failure, every time none of the golden trinkets were _right_ , every time one of them _was_ … it was just a reminder of his past faults, of how he could have been a better brother, a better man, better at anything and everything. He took a shaky breath; he hated breaking in front of her, but if he didn’t allow himself this moment of weakness, then anguish would turn into rage and she so disliked seeing him like that.

 

And it wasn’t just Lisa anymore. Len could not allow his anger to show: there was Barry as well. Len the servant had no reason for the blistering, suffocating heat he was feeling right now. He had to steel himself. He had to cool his head or he would burst, and he couldn’t risk doing that in front of Barry.

  
“Next time,” she whispered, and Len grit his teeth, his hands trembling with the urge to curl into fists. He dug his nails into his knees and snarled.

 

“Yes. Next time.”

  
He wanted to scream at her that she didn’t know that – neither of them _knew_ with certainty just how many gold pieces this betrayal would cost them in the long run, how many shards of Lisa’s soul they had to collect before she was whole again. Of course, he couldn’t yell that in the face of the woman whose body was still that of a sixteen-year-old girl, who couldn’t build a life with the man she loved, all because she was stuck being a ghost in the house she should have left long ago. He had to be strong for her… always strong, for someone else.

 

He hated himself for hating it.

 

Wordlessly, he gathered all the treasure into the sack and stood up from the chair.

 

“Lenny-“

  
“Looks like I have another heist to plan, after all,” he gave her a humorless smirk and walked out of the door.

 

It wasn’t until he reached the storage room, dropping the most recent loot onto the floor, that he allowed himself to grasp the edge of a finely-carved end table, one of the many in the room, and release a loud, shaky breath. His knuckles went white, but with his human hands, he was not strong enough to crack the varnished oak. It was just as well: he did not want to hurt the furniture. He just wanted to _hurt_ , because he deserved it, because everything that went wrong in the lives of people around him had always been _his_ fault.

 

Next time, Lisa kept saying, over and over again – it wasn’t right, he did not deserve her comfort when she was the one suffering the most, when she was the one who might never-

 

The old familiar dread bubbled up in Len’s chest and he crouched down with a high-pitched, agonized gasp, holding on to the stupid table as if it could keep him steady through the storm. Nothing could – he had to be both the one at the helm and the lighthouse that would guide them through this at the same time, and sometimes, it was just too much, too much, _too much_.

 

His injured skin protested at the uncomfortable stretch; Len winced and slowly let go of the table, clutching at his wounds despite the pain that flared white behind his eyelids. He _had_ to be more careful. He was vulnerable like this, human and powerless and useless, and if he died, there was no one who would take care of Lisa. His greatest fear was age would catch up with him before they could collect all the pieces Lisa needed: that he would die a broken, bitter old man who couldn’t right any wrongs he had done, who couldn’t do anything in the end.

 

And yes, maybe Lisa was right – maybe Barry would help, if Len asked. But chances were, with only his fragile human life to hold him in this world, Barry was going to perish before Len, and the thought made breathing all that much harder, all that much more painful.

 

Maybe Barry was here because of a threat, a deal that never meant as much as Barry thought it did; but Len would be damned if he ever let the kid go, away and out into the world filled with disease and bloodshed and warlocks who cared very little about the humans who stood in their way.

 

The next breath he took felt like liquid fire in his lungs, but he forced the air down, then out, over and over until he got the hang of it again. Then he gathered himself from the floor, dusted off his pants and stalked to the door.

 

Powerless or not, he had a heist to plan, a sister to save… and a little human to protect along the way.


	7. Chapter 7

Barry stretched back in his armchair and rubbed his eyes wearily. He never had much trouble staying up late and reading, not when he had been little and couldn’t wait to find out how a story ended in his newest book, not when he’d started university and his constant curiosity drove him to always crave information above and outside his curriculum. But every time he sought answers before, they were there, waiting for him to unearth the knowledge by reaching for the right leather-bound spine, for the right scroll. This time, Barry was not so sure it would be so easy.

 

“You should pace yourself, kid. I don’t think any bookstores in the city would deliver to this place.”

 

Len’s voice was softly amused, but it still made Barry startle out of his thoughts. A cup of tea clinked against the only five square inches of table not covered by open books and scraps of parchment; the warm scent of herbs rose up to Barry’s nose and made his mouth (and tired eyes) water. He looked up with a grateful smile just as Len perched on the armrest of Barry’s chair, gazing at Barry’s mess littering the table.

 

“Sounds like you’ll just have to entertain me yourself, then,” Barry chuckled a bit and reached for the tea. His stomach seized almost violently when confronted with the first sip of the steaming liquid: he glanced towards the windows as he realized he couldn’t tell how much time passed since he buried himself in the library. Again. The tall glass panes were filled with muted blues and wisps of golden-pink clouds. The end of the day was near.

  
Len shot him an amused smirk: one corner of his mouth always seemed to tilt up a little more when he wasn’t being sarcastic. Barry could hardly look away.

 

“Will I,” Len drawled, a challenge and a tease. In moments like these, Barry almost dared to wonder if something was there for Len too, something deeper and softer, when he looked at Barry. Something like that thing that always seemed to uncurl and stretch in Barry’s chest like a content cat whenever Len looked at him like this, or when he was so close that Barry could just lean an inch or two to his side and brush his arm against Len’s thigh. He never did – the fear of being pushed away and shut out was too solid, too real. The stretchy warm thing in his chest always curled back and made itself as small as possible when Barry thought about losing Len’s companionship because he couldn’t force himself to be content with less than what he wanted.

  
“Yeah,” Barry smiled and sipped his tea. It was a little bland, what with their limited supplies, but it was hot and helped Barry unwind after a day spent hunched over books, so he didn’t complain. “You should really take this chance to improve your chess skills before I’m done with the library.”

  
“I happen to be an excellent chess player,” Len’s smirk evened out, widened to mirror the stretch of his confidence. It was funny, really: there were moments when Len would appear almost timid, subdued, a lifetime of servitude carved into his features. But other times – oh, _other_ times, there would be a spark of determined self-confidence flashing through his whole body, like he was completely aware of what he could do and that he could do it _well_. Those moments lit up Len’s eyes and Barry’s heart and he often had to avert his gaze in order not to reach out for that blaze and get burned.

  
“We’ll see about that,” he laughed, easily brushing off the coil of want in his stomach that he got so used to dismissing in the past days. “I think I saw a chessboard back in that storage room… do you think we could take it?”

 

He did not ask if Cold would mind – they had fallen into a wordless agreement not to speak of the warlock if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, and Barry found that he liked the willful ignorance of their circumstances quite a bit.

 

Len’s shoulders drew up minutely. “I don’t see why not. Shall I bring it here?”

 

“No,” Barry waved his hand and rolled his head around a little, his neck starting to feel the effect of staying in one position for far too long. He shivered as he felt chilly draft reach under his coat, and glanced up at Len. “My room? I swear I wasn’t so cold a minute ago.”

 

“Sure you don’t want to get some rest?” Len raised an eyebrow – the concern in his voice warmed Barry over, but it wasn’t enough to chase away the permanent chill that was setting into his very bones. He should really see if he could find a way to transfer a portion of the magical fire to the library’s fireplace, or he would freeze if it got any colder with the changing seasons. And he could barely believe he was already so accustomed to the idea of staying at this place that he was thinking of autumn and winter when the summer barely started, in the outside world that was not enclosed in stone walls and ice gardens.

 

“I need to give you an advantage – if I’m tired, you might have a chance of lasting more than ten minutes,” Barry winked and got up, chuckling when he heard Len’s offended snort.

  
“We’ll see about that,” the man scoffed and slid off the armrest; Barry was glad he had not suggested cards or dice, because there was no doubt in his mind that Len would somehow find marked or loaded ones just to mess with him.

 

He gathered the notes he had taken that day into a neat pile, frowning at the scribbles that marked the parchment rolls. He had dived into this head-first, hoping he could find answers, but he kept going off on tangents, following paths that turned out to have no end, searching for things that were simply not there. He had not given up hope yet, but he was starting to realize that his quest for this manor’s history would be a lot longer and a lot more difficult than he would have guessed.

 

At least he had a daily reminder of the reasons why this was important. Whenever he looked at Len, Barry couldn’t help but wonder how horrible it had to be, to become so used to not knowing anything about his earlier life, to not remembering his family, his friends, himself. There was no guarantee that figuring out the house’s past would help with that, but there was hope, and Barry was clinging to it with desperation of someone who needed a goal if he were to keep himself sane.

 

A shiver wrecked through his body when he entered his room and the warm air enveloped him like a comforting embrace. With a content sigh, Barry let his coat slide off his shoulders and draped it over the nearby chair, even though he was still a little chilled. He’d warm up soon enough, and the devilish glint in Len’s eyes at the mention of chess made Barry feel that he wouldn’t have the time to think about temperature once they started playing.

 

He had just made himself comfortable sitting on his bed, pushing one of the pillows behind his back, when a soft knock echoed through the room.

 

“Ready to lose?” Barry grinned when Len entered – it earned him an affronted eyebrow and Barry couldn’t help but chuckle again. Len glanced around the room, looking strangely lost for a moment before Barry understood and scooted over on the bed, patting the mattress in invitation. The room was spacious for his standards, but there were no armchairs or a table appropriate for a chessboard, and Barry refused to leave the comfortably warm room in order to peruse the tables in the library or the kitchen.

 

Len moved to the bed with an unreadable expression and sat down at the edge of the mattress. His quiet awkwardness made Barry wonder if they were crossing some sort of an invisible line here. Len never went into this room after that first day when he showed Barry the way and he seemed to tread carefully now, as if he wasn’t completely sure he was welcome.

 

Barry threw a pillow at him and grinned when it caught Len in his solemn face.

  
“Here. Not that I think you’ll need it – I’m gonna beat you before your back starts hurting, I’m sure.”

 

“That’s big talk from someone who can’t remember the order of ingredients for a soup,” Len shot back, but he was smiling a little, so Barry deemed it his first victory of the evening.

 

Len folded the pillow behind his back, resting against the headboard, and pulled the chessboard between them. It wasn’t the one Barry had seen in the storage room: that one had been large and opulent, ivory and gold and intricately designed pieces with tiny swords and bulky, life-like horses. The chessboard Len brought was simple and wooden, one of those that could fold into a box that held the pieces. The varnish was missing in several places and one of the corners was slightly chipped, but Barry could see in the way Len handled the simple pieces that it was a well-loved and well-used set.

 

Len smirked at him when the board was ready. “You can take white.”

  
“Oh, no no no,” Barry shook his head and picked a pawn of each color off the set, bringing them behind his back to mix them before he offered Len a choice of his closed fists. “We’re doing this fair and square. Pick.”

 

Len gave him an amused glance, but he tapped Barry’s left hand in the end. Barry suppressed the tiny shiver that threatened to make his hand tremble, and opened his hand to reveal pale wood of the pawn.

  
“See? Even the fate wants you to have a fair advantage,” he snickered and Len rolled his eyes at him before he set the pawn to its rightful place and made his first move.

 

In the end, Barry had to admit that Len hadn’t been lying. He _was_ good, pondering each move and apparently coming up with strategies before Barry even knew what he was doing. He’d always been better at improvising, at finding his way out of tricky situations when they arose: Len, it seemed, was fond of thinking twenty moves ahead in every possible direction. They did not speak, both understanding the necessity for silence and concentration, but Barry struggled to keep his focus on the game anyway. His eyes kept straying from the chessboard and up to Len’s face, to the way his eyes flickered over the pieces, narrowed at times, then widened again. He kept tilting his head to the side a little and Barry came to recognize it as a tell of Len thinking of a tricky position in the game – but it was impossible to discern whether Len was thinking of a situation at hand or something five moves in the future that his mind came up with as a possibility. He pursed his mouth and rubbed at his chin, long fingers running absently over his lips and distracting Barry even more. By the end of the hour, Barry was honestly incapable of keeping his attention on the rooks and bishops and knights. It was no wonder then that Len’s Queen cut off any possibility of escape – when the man looked up at Barry with a confident smirk, Barry couldn’t even find it in himself to mind.

 

“Checkmate,” Len grinned and Barry let out an obligatory whine in protest, but his mouth betrayed him by widening in a smile.

  
“Don’t get cocky, I just went easy on you. I’ll have you know I learned from the best.”

  
“Is that so?” Len raised an eyebrow. “Was that the school of ‘bishops are overrated anyway’?”

 

Barry pouted, for real this time. “No. It was the school of ‘Duke caught me snooping in his library’ actually.”

 

That got Len’s attention, even though Barry had not intended to sound snobby.

  
“The Duke?” he blinked once, then frowned. “I thought your family wasn’t nobility.”

  
“We’re not,” Barry shrugged. “My father used to be the head physician in Duke Harrison’s court. We lived in the castle back then.”

 

“What happened?”

 

Barry felt the old ache in his chest when he thought about it. He didn’t like to remember that particular time in his family’s life, and he never talked about it to anyone. He didn’t want to remind his mother and father of a trying time, and he never told any of his friends, for fear of adding to the burden of his father’s reputation that continued to drag the man down even after all these years. But when Barry looked at Len, there was no malice in the man’s eyes, only simple curiosity, and Barry sighed, leaning back against the headboard to collect his thoughts for a moment.

 

“We lived there since I was born,” he started eventually. “My father was – _is_ a good doctor. He would do anything to help others. Everyone liked him. But there was this nobleman, he got sick… and my dad couldn’t help him. He did his best, and for a while, it looked like the man got better – I was eleven, and I remember I had a terrible stomach-ache that day, and Dad came back to our rooms and told me that now he could take care of me too… but the next day, the man died. And everyone blamed my father. They said it was politics – that someone bribed Dad to-”

 

He drew in a shaky breath, and startled when he felt a tentative touch against the back of his hand. Only then did he realize he had curled his fingers into a fist against the sheets; he let his hand unclench slowly, soothed by the touch as well as the fact that Len wasn’t asking if Henry Allen did what he was accused of doing.

 

Barry cast Len a grateful look – the man’s face was drawn tight when their eyes met.

  
“You don’t have to-“

 

“No, I want to,” Barry shrugged. “It’s just… it’s hard to think about it. My father was sent to prison for a couple of days – my mother was devastated, everyone in the castle kept pointing at us, we had nowhere to go without people whispering behind our backs… in the end, Duke Harrison stepped in, said that there was no definite proof against my dad. But his reputation, everything my father built in his life, it was gone. We had to quietly leave the castle – for a while, Dad tried to find employment in the city, but we couldn’t afford it, so we moved out here a couple years later. He helps people in the villages, those who can’t afford a doctor from the city… and some people, family friends who didn’t believe that my father would be capable of such a horrible thing, still send for him from time to time. But it’s been difficult for him. Especially when I turned sixteen and told him I wanted to be a doctor like him.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Len muttered. Barry blinked at him in confusion.

  
“What for?”

  
“Sounds rough.”

  
“It was,” Barry shrugged a little and bit his lip. He couldn’t help but think that at least he _had_ all his memories: at least he knew what his family had been through. He knew how it changed them, how it broke them and made them stronger at the same time, how it reaffirmed the love they had for each other even when at times, they had survived on potatoes and water. And here Barry was, telling childhood stories to a man who had none of that.

  
He looked down at their joined hands. The contact was making him feel both grounded and unsettled at the same time. Barry’s fingers itched to wrap around Len’s, but he wasn’t certain it was allowed. It could shift this fragile… something between them into a rocky territory, one that could very well shatter the easy companionship they had now. Even though ‘easy’ wasn’t probably the right word… in certain moments, not reaching out and not pushing just a little further was everything _but_ easy.

 

Len was studying him, quiet and indecipherable, his eyes flickering over Barry’s face as if he could read him like a chessboard. Barry squirmed under the scrutiny, but did not look away: Len’s eyes were drawing him in, pulling him closer and refusing to let go. Barry’s heart hammered away against his ribs, swelling with the urge to help this man. But how could he help Len when he couldn’t even help himself? His only option was to redouble his efforts in the library, give Len knowledge if there was no way to set him free. Barry’s sole purpose in life had been to become a doctor and help people – and in this world, defined by magic and isolation, there was only one man he could help. Barry willed Len to understand as he held the other man’s gaze and felt his defenses slipping away. Len had to see his weakness now, just like he had seen all of them on the chessboard and pursued relentlessly.

 

“It _was_ rough,” Barry repeated and offered Len a little smile. “But we pulled through. And… so will _we_.”

 

Barry would swear he noticed Len’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly at the suggestion. Barry shifted his hand under Len’s against his better judgment, turning it palm up so he could wrap his fingers around the other man’s.

 

“Do you ever dream of leaving?” Len whispered; the words tugged at Barry’s heart viciously and he swallowed, trying to find the right answer. He did not want to lie – but he could not gauge how much the truth would hurt Len. Then again, Len must have known, with his sharp mind and keen observations. All Barry could do was answer honestly and maybe speak that part of the truth that Len might not fully believe yet.

  
“Yes,” he murmured, “but lately, in those dreams, you’re leaving with me.”

 

Len breathed in sharply, and his eyes flickered to Barry’s mouth. Barry’s heart stopped, as if it believed that if it did not move, nobody would notice its treacherous hopes.

 

And then, Len was pulling away, his hand abandoning Barry’s fingers to the air that was warmed by magical fire and yet too cold with the absence of Len’s touch. Barry couldn’t help but let his eyes follow the fingers he longed to hold as they wrapped around the chessboard. Len picked the game up and slid off the mattress.

  
“You should rest,” Len spoke, his voice crisp and teasing, its usual volume altogether too loud as it broke the quiet intimacy of the earlier moment. “I think there might be two or three books in that library you haven’t read yet.”

 

He smirked at Barry and at any other time, it would draw a mirrored grin on Barry’s lips; this time, he had to force the amusement into the corners of his mouth.

  
“I’m hoping there might be one on how to beat you,” he shot back. He didn’t understand the line between Len’s eyebrows: it appeared and disappeared again in a blink of an eye, but it left a strange, unpleasant feeling somewhere at the bottom of Barry’s heart.

  
“Good night,” Len nodded to him, his face neutral again before he walked out. The door shut behind him without a sound, and Barry waited for a dozen heartbeats before he allowed himself to slide fully onto the bed and bury his face in the pillow that still held Len’s warmth like a reminder that the surreal moment had really happened. Had he said something…? Had he been too bold with his confessions, had he revealed too much?

  
Barry groaned into the warmed pillow and wished he had some answers instead of more and more questions.

 

…….

 

_What were you thinking?_

 

The question swirled in Len’s head like fog that concealed everything else as he stalked back to his room. He cursed under his breath when he realized he was on his way back to the north wing instead of the bedroom he should be currently using as the servant Barry thought him to be.

 

He turned around in the empty corridor, his knuckles white as his hand curled around the chessboard box, but then his gaze wavered and shifted north, along with his thoughts. He felt unsteady, brittle and crumbling, and whenever he needed to reclaim some semblance of control over his life, over his silly emotions, there was one thing he could always fall back on.

 

 

He contemplated calling on her – she did not sleep, even though she hardly ever appeared at night. Len thought it was because she had never been too fond of the dark, but he never pried, so he couldn’t be sure. Talking to Lisa, however, wasn’t what he had in mind at the moment. What he needed was to feel like he was doing something for her, like he wasn’t just sitting on his hands, letting his heart blindly run away after a pair of soulful hazel eyes. He did not have his powers yet, and could hardly do much; but there was someone who could help.

 

He stalked past Barry’s bedroom on his way downstairs. The door was firmly shut and Len stopped for a second, listening, as if he could hope to hear Barry breathing or moving through the thick paneled wood. He shook his head at the foolish notion and continued on his path.

 

The chessboard clanked quietly against the surface of the dining table before Len turned towards the large mirror covering a significant portion of the wall. He placed his hand against the glass, wavering for just a heartbeat before speaking up.

  
“Sam.”

 

The warlock’s face rippled over the surface almost immediately. Len sometimes wondered whether Sam ever slept, or simply spent all of his spare time hovering above Lisa’s body, watching over her through her neverending night. If it wasn’t reassuring to know that Lisa had her own personal guardsman, it would have creeped Len out. But she didn’t seem to mind, and it was just one in the long list of things Len never asked about, for his own peace of mind.

 

“Yes?”

 

Sam sounded disgruntled, as if Len had disturbed him from an important task. Maybe he considered watching Lisa important; again, Len did not wish to know.

 

“Take me to Mick’s,” he ordered. The mirror’s surface wavered, like air above dusty roads on a hot summer day, and when Len stepped forward, his body was not met with resistance.

 

He never liked the mirror world overmuch – it was full of reflections and yet too empty, hollow, like a grand ballroom without any lights, except Len never sensed the security of walls somewhere in the distance. He had to suppress a shudder as Sam guided him through. It took no more than ten seconds for Sam to show him a mirror that opened like a doorway into more darkness, but Len was still glad when he stepped out and felt solid stone under his feet.

 

The air pressed down on him, heavy and a little stale, the slight smoky stench an aftertaste that lodged itself into the back of Len’s throat after just a few breaths. It was almost completely dark, but Len did not need light to navigate: he had used this passage so many times he could find his way even completely blind.

 

He reached out his hand to his left – it connected with the rough, uneven surface and Len followed the rocky wall deeper into the caves. He remembered how he had asked once why Mick lived like this when he had enough gold from their heists to afford something, _anything_ better. Mick had laughed at him; said that after he’d burned down his third house by accident, it just wasn’t worth bothering anymore. Len wondered then whether he’d gotten a better deal, regardless of what he’d been through; if his powers went off in his sleep, all he had to face was a damp mattress soaking up the melted ice in the morning.

 

He needed Mick now; needed the man who taught Len how to control his powers, how to control _himself_. Because Len felt like a silly boy again, unable to suppress things that were bubbling up to the surface no matter how hard he tried to push them down. In the darkness of the caves, Len saw Barry’s eyes everywhere, gazing at him with that quiet intensity that always had Len feeling like Barry could see everything that Len learned to hide.

 

The scariest part was that he didn’t even know if that was a good thing or bad, anymore. Mick was his last hope of reminding himself what he needed to do – his last resort of regaining some focus.

 

The narrow corridors of the cave slowly filtered in more light as Len continued on his way. Lisa thought it was ridiculous that Mick flat-out refused to place Sam’s mirror closer to his dwelling. Len never questioned that decision – he knew Mick did not trust Sam any more than he did, and Len felt partly vindicated in his mistrust if he wasn’t the only one.

 

Mick was sleeping when the corridors finally opened into the wider space he used as a bedroom. There wasn’t much in there: a heavy oak chest pushed behind a singed boulder and a marble table (it used to grace Len’s manor – he offered it to Mick when the man was angry about always burning his furniture). Several tiny fires were spread out around the room, more for the light than the warmth. Mick did not get cold anymore. He simply admired the strength and beauty of the flame, and Len knew that Mick could spend hours just watching fire lick up and down his arms, making the shadows dance around.   

 

He was snoring softly, his back pushed against the wall where he lay on an old mattress. His arms were crossed over his chest protectively, and for a moment, Len just watched his friend and wondered if he would ever be able to repay all of Mick’s help in kind. Mick never seemed to want anything in return… he was a simple man who enjoyed simple things in life, and never mourned the loss of those pleasures no longer available to him. Len wished he could be the same – just take what life gave him, without his treacherous heart waking up from time to time and reaching for things he could not have.

 

His thoughts twisted towards Barry again; Len frowned at his own inability to simply let it go, and he reached out to shake Mick’s shoulder to wake him. Mick could sleep through a thunderstorm, through an arcane battle, through the house burning and collapsing around him: there was no use calling out to him.

  
“Mick,” Len spoke nonetheless as he pushed at Mick’s shoulder: it would feel a little rude, to simply shake the man without letting him know who it was. “Mick. Wake up. It’s me. Mick- OW.”

 

Len yanked his hand back with a scowl, glaring at his friend who was blinking sleepily up at him – and blazing up.

  
“I thought you didn’t burst into flames in your sleep anymore,” Len huffed accusingly and rubbed at his reddened fingers, sorely regretting that he did not have access to his powers at the moment. He could definitely use some ice.

 

But then, if he _had_ his powers, he would be healing much faster, anyway… this flickering between ‘human’ and ‘warlock’ could be unnerving for more than one reason.

 

“’t’s the rats,” Mick muttered and sat up. The fire around his torso and arms died down and he pushed his knuckles into his eyes briefly. “They come and crawl over me sometimes, so I fire up.”

 

“You burn _rats_ in your sleep?!”

  
“Well I sure as shit ain’t gonna keep them as pets,” Mick grunted and his usual scowl was back, creasing his forehead. “What d’you want?”

 

“The brooch we found in the marquis’ house. It worked.”

 

Mick’s frown eased up a little at that.

  
“Yeah? How’s Lisa? Any better?”

 

Len shook his head slowly: he hated that he couldn’t bring Mick better news, that he was here with a request, not for a celebration.

 

“Inconclusive. It did its part, but Lisa’s still… not awake. Originally, that brooch came as a part of a set, and I need you to retrieve the other one. I have a lead, but I don’t want to wait.”

 

Mick’s eyes slid towards Len’s shoulder then. He did not look apologetic, but Len hadn’t expected that, anyway. Lisa blamed Mick when something happened on one of their heists, and so did the other warlocks, but Len always knew what he was getting himself into with Mick. He was volatile and dangerous, he burned up at the slightest offense and refused to take orders he did not like… but Len learned to work with that, work with _Mick_. It taught him control through necessity, because they would never work, they would never be able to help Lisa, if they both kept going off without any semblance of a plan, without anyone to ground them and direct their rage where it could help the most.

 

“Still no powers?” Mick shrugged, and Len mirrored the gesture, sliding onto Mick’s old, singed mattress to lean against the rocky wall right next to his friend. He wasn’t afraid of him: now that Mick was awake, Len knew the older man wouldn’t hurt him, intentionally or otherwise. Especially not when he knew that Len was just human now. Mick could be unapologetic about the injuries he caused to his fellow warlocks who did not know better than to get out of the way, but he was always oddly careful when Len was powerless. He was also the only one who knew, beside Lisa – the only one Len trusted enough to share his greatest weakness, even though Mick learned about it merely by accident.

 

“No,” Len exhaled and did not close his eyes, afraid that his thoughts would wander in an unwanted direction again. “That’s why I need you to get the other brooch. And I need you to go alone.”

 

Mick raised his eyebrows at that.

  
“Alone?”

  
“Yes. We still can’t be certain of neither Mark’s nor Shawna’s intentions. Hartley won’t care, and I don’t trust Sam.”

 

“How about Axel?”

 

Len frowned. He’d noticed that Axel somehow wormed his way under Mick’s fiery outer shell, but he was still undecided on how much they could trust the kid. How much _he_ could trust Axel with Lisa’s life. Mick knew him all too well, because he sighed and ran a hand down his face:

  
“I need a look-out, Len. Unless you want me to bring the whole house down.”

  
Oh, Mick could be crafty with his negotiations – he knew how much Len hated it when warlocks wrecked property simply because they could, because they were powerful enough and did not care about anyone they hurt or killed, about the ruin and despair they left in their wake. Len could tolerate it with Hartley and his rebellion against his own parents, but he never stood for mindless destruction and rarely let his rogue group get away with it. Laying waste to everything in their way was… messy. Inelegant.

 

And Mick had always been far too good at it.

 

“If you think that _Axel_ of all people will keep the demolition work in check,” Len sighed, glancing at Mick and offering a reluctant nod. It wasn’t the plan he would have gone with – but the trouble was, he couldn’t very well go with _any_ plan at the moment, and he knew that there was only so much he could influence when it came to Mick’s style. “Just… don’t let him throw any of those explosive vials at people. With your fire, that could turn ugly.”

  
“Understood,” Mick smirked. Len should really be worried about what that smirk meant, but he chose to keep his rising sense of dread to a minimum until he saw the damage that those two would undoubtedly cause.

 

“How’s your boy, then?”

 

The question caught Len off-guard and he grit his teeth to keep control, then frowned at the fire warlock.

  
“He’s not mine.”

  
His insides had no reason to clench quite as painfully when he spoke those words. Barry wasn’t his, in any sense, no matter what he wanted, no matter what he allowed himself to hope for when Barry looked at him, or spoke to him, or shivered and stilled and held Len’s hand after having spent an hour stealing surreptitious glances over the chessboard when he thought Len wasn’t paying attention. He’d done his best to focus on the game, never let his eyes stray back towards the boy… but whenever his hand reached out to move a piece, he thought about how it would feel to simply touch Barry instead. The fear that had clamped down hard on his heart at such thoughts was unlike any Len had ever known. Not stronger, but all-consuming and so much more bittersweet, a promise as well as a warning. It was a fluke that he had won the game in the end; the only reason he could think of was that Barry had been even more distracted. And that brought on a new wave of that nauseating expectation.

  
“Whatever you say,” Mick snorted, but Len could tell the other warlock wasn’t taking him seriously. “How’s he, then? The fire holding up alright?”

 

If it were anyone else but Mick, Len would have never asked for that fire in Barry’s room. He guessed the kid was lucky: if it were Mark or Shawna with the fire magic, Barry would’ve had to pile blankets over himself at night and hope for the best. He still remembered how he snuck Mick into Barry’s room, glaring at the larger man to keep quiet and tread lightly – how he worried that Barry would walk in on them and wonder how come Len could ask warlocks for favors, how come Len never asked for a fire of his own.

 

Maybe he should have. This ‘being human’ thing was getting old fast, especially when Len’s body slowly started feeling cold again and he kept shivering in particularly chilly drafts.

 

He nodded to Mick’s question, then realized he had to give his friend at least a semblance of an answer. If he kept avoiding the topic of Barry, Mick would realize something was wrong, and Len did not feel up to that discussion yet. Or ever.

  
“He’s fine. Got me to play chess with him tonight.”

  
“He beat you yet?” Mick smirked, and Len’s heart was gripped in an iron fist again.

 

He knew Mick did not mean anything by it – he had no way of knowing about the war raging in Len’s heart, a war between everything he ever learned about the world and his incessant want for Barry’s company. Mick could not know how Len still remembered those words from Barry, how he couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if the kid figured out who Cold was, what Barry would do if he ever found a way to destroy the warlock he perceived as a threat to his family. No such books had ever been in Len’s library; but he knew there were ways of robbing warlocks of their powers, dark and unpleasant and dangerous. And while Len could not easily picture the wide-eyed, bright, _kind_ boy employing any of those means, he knew how a heart could harden when family was at stake.

 

He had no doubt that Barry would do anything and everything to protect his parents, possibly even his friends – it was one of the things that drew him to Barry like a moth to the flame. When the kid had walked out of the manor only to get herbs for Len’s burns, despite knowing it could very well cost him his deal with ‘Cold’ and his family’s safety, Len’s exhausted mind could not think of anything except ways to keep Barry there, however selfish and cruel that was of him. And when he insisted on helping Len figure out who he was, Len was drawn under, no matter how much he did _not_ want Barry prying into the history of the house and the man living in it.

 

Barry had stopped talking about Cold, and Len had been lulled into a false sense of safety. In a way, he was glad for the reminder, however unintentional, that Barry would never accept all of the parts that made up Len’s true identity. He would ‘beat’ Len if he could, in chess or in battle, and Len had no business forgetting that again, even if for the moment it took to marvel at the emotions flickering in the shifting shades of Barry’s eyes.

 

So when Mick asked if Barry beat him, Len let his lips curl into a sardonic sneer.

 

“I won’t let him,” he said, and pushed off of Mick’s makeshift bed before the older man could divine that Len was not simply talking about chess.

 

“You can have Sam deliver the brooch when you have it,” he instructed and waited for Mick to nod before he slipped into the maze-like shadows that would lead him back home. He might not trust Sam with his secrets, but the matters of the heart made it easy to believe that Sam would not hinder any efforts that could help Lisa get well. Another thing that terrified Len about the boy occupying his house and his mind; even if Barry did not strike out against ‘Cold’ there was no guarantee that people would not use the kid to get to Len. And he could not let that happen – he refused to watch Barry get hurt, or worse, so that someone could exact their petty, ridiculous revenge.

 

He held his head high when he let Sam guide him back through the mirror world, but a sigh of relief still escaped him as he ascended the stairs towards his room. The manor was dark and Len cast a wistful glance down the corridor. He stood in the shadows for a while, watching the wispy golden light of magical fire dance across the floor under Barry’s door, then pushed into his own room and closed the door behind himself as quietly as he could.


	8. Chapter 8

Len did his best to treat his newly acquired burns by himself. He cursed his own preoccupation from the previous evening that prevented him from taking care of his injuries the moment he had come home last night, but it had not hurt quite so much then. He couldn’t honestly say that it hurt too badly even at the moment; they were minor burns, reddened, tight skin with a few tiny blisters popping up here and there along his forefinger and across his palm. He was mostly trying to prevent Barry from finding out – but of course, he could not be that lucky. Just as he was muttering profanities under his breath, attempting to stop the bandage from coming undone around his hand, Barry stepped into the kitchen and his expression darkened immediately.

 

“What happened?” he demanded, in a tone Len thought well-suited for a physician. Barry might not have completed his university course, but he was already great at guilt-tripping injured people, and Len could not help but wonder how great the kid would have been, had he ever gotten the chance to become a full-fledged doctor. Guilt tightened around his heart like a vicious fist, and Len took a deep breath, trying to loosen the grip.

 

“Nothing,” he shook his head, and Barry’s eyes narrowed in obvious suspicion. Len sighed. “I was not as careful around the stove as I should have been.”

 

He was glad that he had already started a fire that morning – he had done it without furthering his injuries and mostly because he was feeling the chill of an unheated house, but it came in handy at the moment as a valid excuse for new burns. Barry gave him a long-suffering look, then crouched in front of Len’s chair, like that night when he had found Len with far worse injuries. It filled Len’s chest with strange nostalgia, and he wondered how much time they had left.

 

The guilt came back full-force as he felt almost thankful for the new injuries that might stall his powers from coming back, even if only for a day or two. He should not be thinking like that – he should want his powers back as soon as he could have them, and he did, for Lisa, for himself, even for Barry’s sake, because in his current state, Len could not offer much protection if somebody found the house, an enemy warlock or even a human bounty hunter. He managed to overcome that guilt for a couple of days by delegating his work to Mick, but he knew he could not do that forever. Mick was reliable, yet not exactly stable, and Len would not dream of asking him to find all the remaining gold pieces by himself. Lisa was _his_ sister, his responsibility, and he had to get his powers back… but he still could not shake the unease as he thought about Barry’s words from last night. At the moment, he was just Len, a human getting an earful about paying attention when handling fire while having a kind young man spread poultice over his palm with careful fingers. And he dreaded to find out how things would change once he had his powers back.

 

“There,” Barry declared his work done with a smile as he tied the bandages expertly around Len’s wrist, and patted his knee before he stood up, his joints cracking a little. A smile ghosted over Len’s lips at the incredibly human sound.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Anytime,” Barry shrugged, then let out a small huff: “And by that, I don’t mean you should go and get yourself burned again. In fact, you’re not allowed near fire today.”

  
“Oh? Are you going to feed us, then?” Len raised an eyebrow in amusement.

 

“Just watch me,” Barry scoffed, even though there was an undertone of a genuine request in his voice. After days spent in the kitchen, the boy was moderately skilled when it came to basic breakfasts and simple stews, so Len was not too worried; nonetheless, he stayed, watching over Barry’s efforts and offering small comments here and there, mostly because it made something in his chest jolt with joy when Barry threw him an offended look and huffed that he could manage on his own.

 

……

 

“I thought I forbid you to go near fire today,” Barry scolded him with a frown, but accepted the steaming mug of herbal tea with a relieved smile. His eyes were a little bloodshot from all the reading (and possibly the dust in the library – Barry seemed to have forgotten that he was allowed in there under the condition of cleaning, and Len did not remind him).

 

He perched on the edge of Barry’s armrest as usual, enjoying the peace and quiet for a moment as he glanced at Barry’s notes. They were getting more and more chaotic every day, and Len felt a little guilty for letting Barry do this, waste his time on research that would yield no fruit in the end… but if nothing else, it gave the kid hope, a sense of purpose in concentrating on a task at hand. Len understood the importance of such purpose in one’s life: another reason why he could only look into the future with apprehension. What would he do once Lisa was cured…? He had not been honest with Barry about not remembering his family or his past, but it wasn’t a complete fabrication. Len could not remember being anything else than a warlock – a son, a brother, and a small number of other things, but he had never been particularly great at any of those. It was ironic, really, how much Lisa’s curse changed his life: it gave him that sense of purpose that Barry now sought in dusty books and old parchments, and Len could not see anything past the completion of his own task. That was probably why he did not argue with Barry more about the futility of his search – he did not want the boy to feel the same sense of detachment, of drifting without any direction, like a leaf caught up in the wind.

 

He wondered if he would let Barry go, when Lisa was healed, when there would no longer be any need to stay at this place. His sister might want to build a life, a real one, unbound by rules and bloodlines and magic, and Len would not stand in her way… but he was moderately certain that Lisa would make room in her new life for her brother. He could not say the same of Barry, and it turned his stomach into lead every time he dared think about it too much.

 

Len shuddered at the chill in his veins at the implications and turned to the boy he still had within his grasp. Barry smiled at him, and Len’s icy insides melted at the simple sight. It had been so long since he could enjoy such everyday pleasures, if he ever had them at all. Barry was a wonder, a miracle, and Len longed to reach out for him as much as he dreaded getting too close and making things more difficult for himself in the long run.

 

Barry set the half-empty mug on the table and sighed, leaning into Len a little. His temple rested against Len’s arm and sent tiny, warm sparks down his spine, even as he struggled to remain steady on his precarious perch. The simple point of contact was perfectly innocent and yet it left Len’s guts quivering with both terror and want. His hand almost shook with the urge to reach out and run his fingers through Barry’s messy hair… but he was all too conscious of the boundaries he could not allow himself to cross.

 

“Sounds like it’s not going too well,” he commented, after he’d swallowed to ease the tightness in his throat. Barry sighed again, his breath a warm puff of air soaking into the worn fabric of Len’s sleeve.

 

“I’m nearly done with everything I could find in the library… and I haven’t learned much,” he complained. From above, Len had an excellent view of his lashes, casting long shadows over his cheeks.

 

“I’m sorry,” Len said softly, uncertain what was expected of him. He did not want to sound obnoxious by pointing out he told Barry so; he did not mean to discourage the boy from his reading, a pastime as worthwhile as any in an abandoned manor in the middle of nowhere. He could think up ways to occupy the boy, duties he could perform for ‘Cold’ that would give Barry a way of working towards his freedom – but the thought alone froze Len’s heart. He could not bring himself to put a time frame on Barry’s stay.

  
“No,” Barry shook his head a little; his messy hair caught on Len’s sleeve, the shorter strands prickling here and there through the gaps between the threads in the fabric. The sensation gathered like a pool of warmth in Len’s stomach. “ _I’m_ sorry. I thought I could give you answers…”

 

“I don’t need answers,” Len murmured, and Barry turned his head up, his eyes an earthy green in the soft light of a fading day.

 

“You deserve them, anyway,” he said simply. Len wanted to chuckle, dry and sarcastic, because the list of things he _deserved_ was short and full of burned places where he used to keep his hopes and dreams before he realized they were out of his grasp. Barry’s blind belief in him had weak, shallow roots, grown on the soil of dishonesty and deceit, and Len knew it was bound to come crashing down if Barry ever learned the truth. Still, a part of Len kept reaching for the boy, turning towards him like a sunflower would towards the first morning rays. It was that part of him that always pushed him one step too far towards self-destruction – in that moment, holding Barry’s trusting gaze, Len felt a bone-chilling certainty that this boy would be his downfall.

 

“I was thinking,” Barry averted his eyes, shifted against Len’s arm, probably seeking a more comfortable position. “I could look through the house… there’s a whole wing downstairs I haven’t seen yet. There might be something-“

 

“I would advise against it,” Len interjected, the slow, comfortable waves in his stomach caused by the closeness turning into an immediate storm at Barry’s words. His thoughts went to the study and the documents that could be left there – Len never cared enough to get rid of them, even after the idea occurred to him not too long ago, when Barry first started his quest for the history of the house. He should have taken the time… he would need to deal with it, because he could not believe Barry would be deterred by sheer reason.

 

As expected, Barry turned up a frown to him: “Why not? I was only forbidden from going to the north wing.”  
  
“I don’t think that was an open invitation to go snoop everywhere else,” Len scoffed, which, predictably, made Barry scowl harder. What was worse, he pulled away to look at Len properly without gaining a painful crick in the neck – Len regretted the loss of warmth even if it made perfect sense.

  
“If he didn’t want me looking at his things, he should’ve made it clear when he yelled at me about the north wing.”

_He should have_ , Len thought _._ No use crying over spilt milk now – he did not have his powers back and thus could not go back to renegotiate the deal Barry had going with ‘Cold’.

 

“I think he expected you to stay put,” he shrugged, and Barry’s eyes narrowed.

 

“Did he also expect you to keep an eye on me?” he asked quietly, and Len’s blood turned cold again.

 

“What?”

 

Barry sat up straighter, putting a few more inches of distance between them.

 

“I mean… you’re obviously loyal to him if you let yourself get burned on his orders. You know how he thinks, and he trusts you with his home when he’s not here. Plus, you don’t seem too excited about the idea of me learning about the house. Why is that, Len? Do you know what Cold is hiding? What are _you_ hiding?”

 

His stomach twisted and he looked away – a free admission of guilt if there ever was one, but he could not bear to look at the boy when his hazel eyes were drilling holes into Len, demanding answers. A strange thought flickered to life; what would Barry do if he revealed all of his secrets right there? The picture was startlingly vivid in his mind. He could turn his eyes to the boy, hold his gaze for a moment – and say that he was the warlock Barry dreaded and hated, the reason why Barry could not be with his family and friends. He could admit to lying all this time, pretending to be something he was not, grasping at straws and trying to have something he did not deserve. Barry would startle at first; worry that he revealed so much, that he let a warlock get so close. And then he would likely demand proof. Without his powers, Len could hardly provide; Barry would laugh it off, with willful disbelief, but he would be wary of Len from that moment onwards.

 

Len remembered what Lisa said on the day after the boy arrived. _You will end up hurt either way, so maybe you could just let yourself have one nice thing before that happens._ He’d dismissed her words then, told her he did not want anything from Barry, determined to resolve the situation before it could become too much to handle. Len almost wanted to laugh at how naïve he had been; he’d long missed the point from which he could have returned unharmed. All that was left now was to barrel forward, unstoppable like an avalanche that eventually destroyed everything in its path. He could not go back, and the thought of driving Barry away upset something deep in his stomach… so he chased away all the ridiculous ideas about cruel honesty and shook his head as he looked straight at the boy, smiling.

 

“Why, I can’t let you know about the incredible treasure underground, can I?”

 

Barry’s eyes narrowed for a second, but then he rolled them towards the ceiling and snorted.

 

“You showed me the gold already, Len. I mean it. But… it’s alright if you can’t talk about it. I don’t want to put you in danger,” he glanced up with an expression so sincere Len’s heart squeezed painfully at the thought of keeping the boy in the dark. The boy who wanted to help _him_ – the boy who pleaded with a warlock for _his_ safety, who was so upset when he saw Len’s burns that he risked everything just to go outside and find healing herbs. Barry was brave, and kind, and _good_ , and Len truly did not deserve anything from him. But mistakes had been made and now all he could do was to live with the consequences. Not yet, though… not yet.

 

Warm fingers curled around his hand and squeezed – the touch startled him out of his thoughts and he glanced at the boy. Barry did not let go.

 

“I’m not going to demand any more answers from you,” he said, with raw determination in his voice and heat in his eyes, “but I’m also not going to stop looking. If there’s any chance for us… I will find it. I promise.”

 

He could not know that Len’s insides twisted in dread at those words. He thought he was making a promise Len needed, wanted, one that would set him free. And maybe, in the end, it would… maybe Barry would find a way to take him down. Maybe Len would even let it happen, once Lisa was safe and sound, once he found a way of keeping her out of it all.

 

He squeezed Barry’s fingers briefly, then slid off the armrest, away from Barry’s tempting warmth.

  
“When you’re done, we can see about improving your chess skills first,” he smirked a little and let his gaze linger as Barry’s lips stretched into a smile before he returned back to his work.

 

Len walked out of the library, hesitating only for a split second before he headed downstairs. Maybe he _would_ let Barry win over ‘Cold’ one of these days, but Lisa still had a long way to go and much to heal. Len would be damned if he allowed anything to happen to him before he found a way to help his sister. Barry might’ve made his promises… but Len had his own to keep.

 

……

 

“Why don’t you just burn it all?” Sam’s inquisitive eyes followed Len as he systematically rooted through the study. The mirror, hastily taken down from the wall, sat propped up against the high-backed chair; Sam’s reflection was steady, apart from the moments when the smooth surface rippled as Len threw another document into the mirror world.

  
“I’m not Mick,” Len huffed in annoyance. “And the point is to keep this quiet, not to prove that something has been recently destroyed.”

 

“You’re going to an awful lot of trouble for the kid.”

 

Len scowled at the mirror and tossed another scroll into the glass, wishing there was a way he could hit Sam in the face with the rolled-up parchment.

 

“Should’ve done this a long time ago. Nothing to do with Barry,” he grunted as he sifted through the documents still left on the desk. He did not have much time, and very little knowledge of what could have been left where. He had not visited this room often, even after he got free reign of the house – it reeked of memories, of people he would rather forget, and now his willful ignorance has come home to roost. He scanned another roll of parchment and threw it haphazardly through the mirror, just as Sam’s face flickered out, leaving behind only the drawling, smug tones of his words.

  
“Hmm. Nothing to do with him rummaging through the library? Nothing at all?”

 

“Mind your own business,” Len snarled and stalked to the shelves to go through the books left there for any incriminating information.

 

Sam’s disapproval screeched like rusty hinges in his voice.

 

“That’s the thing – this _is_ my business, Cold.”

 

“No, it’s not,” Len countered, feeling about five years old, and threw a whole stack of books into the mirror world. He did not have the luxury of paging through every single one, and he would not miss even a single item from this study if it remained within Sam’s realm forever. There were no memories, no knowledge in here that he wished to keep alive in his mind.

 

“Anything that can harm Lisa is my business,” the mirror master retorted as his face reappeared in the glass. Len whipped around with a glare that would cut into anyone else like a blade – but Sam did not have a corporeal body to fear for, and so his cocky smirk did not diminish in the least.

 

“She’s my sister,” Len snapped and stalked to the mirror, throwing another book in with more force than strictly necessary. The other warlock must have been well aware of how little he could do for Lisa, were any harm to come to her. He was forever trapped in his looking glass, always just an observer to the world – Len understood the need to establish some sense of power from a position of helplessness, of weakness, but that did not mean he liked it when it was _his_ position in the household, in the group, that Sam kept challenging at every turn. “I protected her long before you even met her, and I will do so until the day I die. But I will do it on _my_ terms, do you understand?”

 

His growl made Sam’s mouth twist to the side, and his mirrored hand came up, fingers toying with something small and glittery.

  
“Then I guess you don’t need me to pass the message from Mick?” Sam raised an eyebrow, and Len grit his teeth as he recognized the object twirling between Sam’s fingers.

  
“Keep it safe,” he hissed and threw another scroll into the mirror, looking around to see if he could have missed anything. He refused to play into Sam’s sense of self-importance, to beg and to tell him that he was indeed an asset to the group, to the quest for Lisa’s life. There was no love lost between them, but if there was one thing Len could rely on, it was that Sam would never keep away anything that could help Lisa. Even if it meant that the mirror master had to keep deferring to the man he hated. “We test it tonight.”

 

…...

 

Lisa’s projection wavered above the bed when Len entered the room. She glanced up at him with a soft smile, a little less vibrant, and little more transparent than usual. She always said it had something to do with daylight – it was easier for her to keep her form constant, almost solid in appearance, when the sun was up high. But Len could not risk waiting for the morning on the off chance Barry would wander back to the north wing. Even if ‘Cold’ made a deal with the kid, the possibility was still there, sitting heavy in the pit of Len’s stomach and making him wait for the night.

 

They’d played a game of chess before Barry went to sleep – Len nearly lost, distracted by the thoughts of the brooch that could be the last piece Lisa needed to come back to life. It was nearly impossible to focus on tiny wooden figures moving in predictable patterns when his own life was hurtling towards chaos; if Lisa was finally freed of her curse tonight, Len could…

 

He did not even know what he was thinking, words and concepts too scared to materialize in his mind, leaving behind only the vaguest wisps of feelings and trembling, weak hopes whenever he glanced up at Barry’s frowning brow as the boy stared at the board. They were both trying to figure out their next move – but Len’s mind was operating on more than one chessboard.

 

He pushed the thoughts of Barry away, as far as they would go into the dark corners of his mind, and approached Lisa’s bed. This moment was about her, about _them_ , trapped by different curses but still together, and Len could not help but take a deep breath as he sat on the edge of the mattress, looking down at his sister’s pale, young face.

 

“Do you think…?” her voice was barely more than a whisper, and Len hated that all he could offer in response was a shrug. He did not know – but he _hoped_ , and he learned early enough to hide it, not to let Lisa focus too much on a particular moment as the day she would finally be free.

 

“Ready?” he asked instead, and she scoffed behind his back.

 

“I’ve been ready for fifteen years, Lenny. Do it.”

 

Sam reached out in his reflection and Len let his hand pass through the glass, only to feel the weight of the gold brooch drop into his palm. With another deep breath, he brought it to Lisa’s motionless hand.

 

He almost smiled when the magic, like fine smoke, rose from the gold and wove around Lisa’s arm, up and up, settling into her skin and making her glow. As his eyes followed the strands of magic, he wondered how many more they would need; he did not dare think that this was the last one, that they could be so lucky.

 

Lisa’s gasp came to him from a distance, tore him out of his thoughts. He turned towards her, towards the immaterial, incorporeal _her –_ the wide-eyed shock in her face made him pause.

 

“Lisa…?”

 

“Lenny,” she called out quietly and her projection trembled around the edges. Len’s heart stopped and then picked up the pace – she reached out for him, long, pale arm hovering inches from his shoulder, fingers flickering like a candle’s flame attacked by a draft.

 

He repeated her name, as if that could do anything – he heard the two syllables echoed from the mirror, but he wasn’t looking at Sam. “What’s-“

 

“Something’s… wrong,” she whispered.

 

A cough shattered the eerie quiet like an explosion. Len twisted around to stare at his sister, at her _body_. Eyes still closed, Lisa’s sixteen-year-old jaw fell open and another cough wrecked through her fragile frame.

 

Len’s chest seized on her behalf, hope and fear mingling as he grasped her hand. The brooch dropped to the mattress and Len’s eyes stung as he brushed hair out of her face:

 

“Lisa… Lisa, can you hear me? Open your eyes, Lis-“

 

“Lenny-“

 

Her projected voice from behind him sounded pained and he turned, unsure where to look, what was going on- why was she still hovering over her bed when she was _moving_ now, breaths coming in short, rough gasps.

 

“…wrong,” she repeated and then her projection paled, barely discernible – and then dissolved into the shadows.

 

Her hand, so small in Len’s grasp, jerked, and her whole body arched, sheets twisting as she trashed on the mattress with sudden force. The gasps were replaced by coughs, violent and heavy as if she was struggling for breath. Her chest heaved up, lungs rattling and eyes still firmly shut.

 

“Lisa!” he yelled, desperate and pained, fear making his breathing harder as well. He tried to soothe her, touched her cheek, stroked her hair, but the coughing only got worse with every second. Panic welled up in his chest as she wheezed for air and Len struggled to stand.

 

Letting go of her hand was the single most difficult thing he’s ever done, but he did not know how to help her, and there was one person who could.

 

 

He tore out of the room at break-neck speed, ran as hard as he could down the dimly lit halls, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and clouding his mind with terror. Guilt beaded on his forehead like cold sweat – he had thought about what he would do when he no longer needed to focus on Lisa’s curse, but he never meant- he never wanted-

 

“Barry,” he croaked, throat so tight it could not produce a proper cry, as he more fell than walked into the kid’s room. Barry jerked awake, magical fire illuminating his eyes, full of sleep and narrow as he blinked in confusion.

  
“Len? What’s-“

  
He wasted no time grabbing Barry’s wrist and just pulling him out of bed. The kid gave in, the lack of resistance probably caused by sleep – or maybe it was trust, Len did not know. “Come with me.”

  
“Where? Len, I-“

  
His grip tightened on Barry’s wrist and he pulled the boy closer again. There was no time for explanations; he needed the kid to move, right _now_. “Just come with me!”

 

“I- yes, okay, I’ll come, what’s going on?”

 

Len couldn’t explain. He had no words left in him, apart from ‘come with me’ and ‘save her, please’ and the latter would not make any sense until Barry saw. Every second was a heavy weight on his shoulders and Len had to struggle to move, angry at himself, angry at Barry that the kid could not walk _faster_ – angry that Barry stopped in the hallway, eyes wide when Len turned to hiss at him to _move_.

 

“I can’t go there,” Barry whispered, eyes trained somewhere over Len’s shoulder. He twisted around to look and realized where they were: the corner that separated the east wing from the north. Barry’s eyes were wide and startled, skin sickly blue in the moonlight filtering through the frosty windows, and Len’s stomach swooped with a sense of panic. Every second could cost Lisa her life – he couldn’t hear the coughs from here, what if she already-

 

“Please,” he breathed and his fingers spasmed, still clamped around Barry’s wrist. And then he let go and stepped closer, hands coming up to cup Barry’s face.

 

“Please,” he repeated – a mighty warlock reduced to begging, but he would do so much more if it could do Lisa any good, if it could save her life.

 

The world went still, Barry’s huge eyes watching him with panic – it was nothing compared to the panic hammering against Len’s ribs, shaking his whole world. He could not hear Lisa’s coughs from here and he did not know what it meant, if it was the distance, if the sounds she made were not nearly enough to travel so far and only sounded loud when he was not expecting them. Or if she already- no, he couldn’t think like that.

 

“I can’t,” Barry mumbled, and his fingers brushed over Len’s knuckles, soothing, slow – he did not need slow at the moment, dammit, he needed speed, he needed action, he needed Barry to _move_. “You know I can’t, Len – Cold and I have a deal, I’m not allowed-“

  
“She’ll die,” he said, voice so rough he worried if Barry could understand him at all. “I don’t know what’s wrong, and she’s- you’re a doctor, you said you wanted to help people- so _help her_. Please.”

 

He could feel Barry’s jaw work under his palms as the kid swallowed and his eyes strayed over Len’s shoulder, down the darkened hall.

  
“Who?”

  
“She’s… just come,” Len forced out and stepped back, taking Barry’s hand again. When the kid’s fingers curled into his grip, he felt a glimmer of hope, stupid and misplaced because that tiny motion could not help anything at all. But Barry let himself be dragged down the corridor, to the door that had been left wide open when Len barreled out of it.

 

Lisa was still moving in short spasms, air wheezing in her throat to the point where it was painful to listen. Her thin body twisted and turned, and Len glanced at Barry with a desperate plea.

  
“Help her,” he mumbled, but he could already see Barry’s expression falling into that familiar determination.

  
“She’s seizing,” Barry commented and went to the bed – Len’s hands curled into fists with no hand to hold on. His nails pressed painfully into the skin of his palms as he watched Barry work: except Barry wasn’t doing much. He touched Lisa’s wrist, probably to feel for her pulse, but then he sat on the edge of the mattress and… nothing else.

  
Len jerked forward, a half-step or a half-fall. “Help her!”

 

“I can’t,” Barry shook his head, glancing back at Len. “Nothing I can do except wait it out and then make sure she’s alright.”

 

Those were not the words Len needed to hear. He needed hope, he needed something solid to believe in, something to do instead of just standing there, trembling like a leaf and silently panicking because his whole world was trashing around on that bed and struggling to breathe.

 

“What’s her name?” Barry asked, and Len had to blink a couple of times – his brain was full of smoke, every thought he had focused on his sister. It took a moment for him to realize what those words meant.

 

“Lisa.”

  
“Lisa,” Barry repeated – it sounded so foreign, hearing the name slip off his tongue, worlds Len had struggled so hard to keep separate colliding in the most violent, unimaginable way. Barry kept whispering that name over and over, and Len wondered, foolishly and hopefully, if maybe it would work from him, if he could put healing into the two syllables that only came out desperate in Len’s own voice.

 

And he, the one who swore to protect her, the one who spent his life trying to make hers easier, to make her _whole_ again, he could only stand in the middle of a room that seemed too empty, too lifeless now, and watch. He counted – he hadn’t done that in quite a while, unless they were out on a job and the seconds passing by meant a way out or a change in their plans.

 

Twenty-nine… she let out a rattled gasp that sounded like someone’s dying breath and Len’s throat tightened upon hearing it. Thirty-four – her back arched, again and again: Len’s vision blurred a little, fists trembling by his sides. Fifty-three, and she struggled with another breath, fifty-five, silence.

 

Fifty-eight.

  
“Is she-“

 

His voice cracked, throat constricting around the words he dreaded to _think_. Barry looked up at him – Len was terrified to look back, kept his eyes trained on his sister’s motionless body so that he would not see pity, regret, sympathy in Barry’s face.

  
“She’s calmed down, for now-“

 

He staggered under the weight of those words, hands shaking as he released the death grip he had on himself. A step forward, and another – his knees hit the ground hard as he reached for her clammy fingers, struggled to release the breath that had been lodged in his chest like a knife.

  
“Thank you,” he breathed and hunched over. He wiped the tiny beads of sweat from her brow and his other hand slid up her wrist, just enough to find pulse. It was there – faint and almost impossible to sense, and for a moment, Len was terrified that it was the beating of his own heart that he was feeling, a phantom of his wishful thinking, but it was _there_ , a rhythm different, calmer than that of his own blood rushing with relief.

  
“I didn’t do anything,” Barry sighed, and he sounded tired. “It will happen again. Soon.”

  
Len’s head snapped up at that and he finally looked at Barry – he did not look relieved, not at all. That could not be a good sign.

  
“What do you mean-“

  
“Look,” Barry spoke softly: it made Len feel vulnerable as well, like Barry was deliberately quiet not only because of Lisa but because Len himself must’ve looked like he needed it. He would’ve hated it at any other time, being seen as fragile, as breakable, but he was too close to the tipping point at the moment and the one rational part of his mind not completely drowned in fear for Lisa’s life told him that he should appreciate Barry’s approach.

 

The kid pointed towards Lisa’s arm, and Len pulled away a little, unable to see anything with his forehead nearly touching her pale skin. So pale that the darkened purple veins underneath stood out in stark, starling contrast.

  
“She was cursed, wasn’t she,” Barry more stated than asked, eyes trailing back to Lisa. “I’ve seen this at the university. Her body’s struggling to heal, fighting the magic.”

 

Len had to swallow to bring his voice back, throat still tight and raw. “Is there nothing you can do?”

 

He couldn’t lose her, he _couldn’t_ – whatever it took, he would do it, he would go anywhere, risk anything, any _one_. When Barry gave him that mournful look and shook his head, Len’s world was tugged from under his feet in horror.

  
“Not much more I can think of,” Barry shrugged. “Not without-“

  
He cut himself off, but Len zeroed in on that sliver of hope, his body angling towards Barry as if reaching for the flicker of _maybe_.

 

“Without what?”

 

Barry licked his lips and Len hated every second that kept him from knowing how to help his sister, but he steadied himself, stopped the rush of accusations. Without Barry, there was no way he could figure it out – he could not take her to another doctor, risk capture or death for both of them.

 

Barry rubbed a hand over his messy hair, and his eyes shone with ‘sorry’ as he looked at Len again. “There’s a potion that could help, with curses. Helps the body deal with magic. But I don’t know how to make it, and even if I did… we don’t have the ingredients. It takes weeks-“

 

Len was standing before he knew he had moved.

  
“Do you know the name of that potion?”

 

“I… I know how it smells, and I’ve seen it, but that’s beyond the point-“

 

“Would an apothecary have that potion in stock?” Len interrupted, icy calm gripping his heart. He knew what he had to do now… and he could not care less about the cost.

 

“Well, yes, usually, but Len, there’s no way-“

  
Lisa coughed again, drew in a shaky breath. Her fingers cramped in the wrinkled sheet.

 

“Sam,” Len growled and leaped up towards the mirror behind the bed. “Is there an apothecary you can get us in?”

  
“Who-“ Barry started, but his sentence turned into a gasp when the mirror master’s voice echoed through the room.

  
“There’s one. The mirror’s in the pharmacist’s bedroom, but it’s enough for you to get through.”

  
“Good,” Len nodded and turned to Barry – who was staring at him with fear, worry, and a little bit of hesitation. They did not have time… but Len knew he could not do this without the kid. He closed the distance between them in two steps and crouched in front of Barry, reaching for his hand, twisted in a fist into the sheets.

  
“Barry… I need you to trust me.”

 

“Why is the mirror talking? What are you gonna do, Len?!”

 

“I’ll tell you later,” Len promised, even though he did not know how he would explain it all – at the moment, that wasn’t important. He could figure it out later, answer Barry’s questions, but Lisa’s body was starting to spasm again and Len was _not_ standing here watching it happen if there was anything he could do about it. “Just trust me. Can you do that?”

 

A painful second, then another passed by, but Barry’s head tilted in a hesitant nod. That was all Len needed. He stood up from his crouch and extended his hand to the kid.

 

“The mirror will take us to a pharmacist’s house. When we get there, I need you to look for the potion.”

 

Barry’s eyes narrowed. “We’re not going to just _steal_ it. Are we?”

 

The challenge in those words was clear. _Are you the kind of man who would steal medicine?_ And Len was, absolutely and unflinchingly, he had done much worse in his life and he likely would again, without any hesitation. But that was not the man Barry knew in him – not the man a good person like Barry would help. As wretched as it was, Len needed Barry to believe that he was righteous and good and just. Len was not above using that knowledge to his advantage; they did not have the time to argue about the grey areas of morality, especially since Len was headed steadily towards the black portion of that spectrum for a very long time.

 

His eyes caught on a glimmer of gold: he reached towards the bed and picked up the brooch, set with precious stones that sparkled even in the dim light of the room.

 

“Will this be enough?”

 

Barry’s eyes caught on the gold and he gave a tentative nod. Len grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together as he spared Barry one last look.

  
“Trust me,” he said, even though he felt stained, dirty, asking for the kid’s trust when he did not deserve it in the least. But this wasn’t about him: he might not deserve anything from Barry, but Lisa deserved her life back, and Len had sworn to give it back to her, no matter what it would cost him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took longer than expected, sorry for the wait and happy new year to all <3 the next one might take even longer since January will be extra-busy for me, but here's hoping that I'll manage to write something anyway XD

_Trust me_.

 

The words rang in Barry’s mind as he let himself be pulled towards the mirror. Barry had encountered minor magic tricks throughout his life, stood in front of a warlock and felt the power, but he still found himself gasping when the surface that should have been solid and unyielding gave under Len’s touch. Barry instinctively held his breath when Len passed through the mirror like a ghost and their joined hands inched towards the glass – but he couldn’t feel anything out of ordinary. There was his own reflection, staring into his wide eyes from the mirror, and then it was easy, like stepping through a door.

 

He stumbled when he looked down and there was nothing under his feet. The soles of his shoes found something solid in the darkness, but Barry’s stomach flipped at the irrational sensation of standing above a great abyss. His fingers tightened around Len’s hand; whatever the man’s connection was to the magic of the mirrors, to this ‘Sam’, Barry did not want to risk being abandoned in such a strange place.

 

Mirrors floated all around, sending their reflection back and distorting it in strangest ways, flashes of motion in the corners of Barry’s vision that fed the unease in the pit of his stomach. It only took a couple of seconds before he could not bear it any longer – he focused on Len’s back in front of him, the determined line of his shoulders and the fabric of his shirt, shifting with every step of the way. It helped, a little, but Barry still could not wait to get out of this place that did not feel like a place at all, more like a lot of _nothing_ , vast heaps of emptiness that had drifted closer and closer over the ages.

 

Barry’s heart skipped a beat when Len stopped all of a sudden: he turned to face Barry with an intense stare. Barry could see the traces of underlying fear, the panic that had burst to the surface back in the mansion, when Len had pleaded with Barry to step into the forbidden wing. He’d never seen Len so distraught: Barry would not have risked breaking the deal with Cold if it had not been for Len’s wide, terrified eyes.

 

“Follow me. Don’t look back, don’t linger.”

 

With that, Len turned towards what had to be a mirror and crouched – when he disappeared beyond the smooth surface, Barry understood why. This frame was much smaller than the one they just went through: it barely reached up to Barry’s waist, and he had to fold his body to fit into the opening. He reached for the glass, feeling strangely vulnerable and unsteady without Len’s hand to guide him through, but he steeled himself and pushed forward.

 

The first thing he heard when his head emerged from the mirror was a scream. The voice was silenced before it could fully form the words and Barry’s heart leaped up before his eyes adjusted to the shadows – for a second, he thought the scream was Len’s. Then he saw two figures struggling in the dark and he realized it had to be the pharmacist. He was trying to fight Len, but the servant was stronger; Barry pushed down the insistent questions in his mind, about where Len learned to fight like that or what was he going to do.

 

His first instinct was to help, and it was frightening how undecided he was as to whom he wished to aid in this fight: Len, who was just trying to save that girl, or the pharmacist, who was in the right, trying to fight the man who snuck into his home uninvited. He scrambled for purchase – the mirror was high up on the wall, impossible to climb out of without risking a fall. Barry had to pull back and turn, climb out feet first. He blindly toed under the mirror for something to help, until his shoe hit a small table underneath the frame. He used it as a step to climb down and turned towards the fighting men, but it was over in a split second, before he could so much as take a step.

 

Len pushed and the pharmacist’s knees collided with the bed: he collapsed onto the mattress and tried to scramble back up immediately. Free to shout, he started to yell again, but Len leaped forward and pinned the man down with his body, pressing his bandaged hand over the man’s mouth to silence him.

 

It crashed down on Barry that they just broke into a person’s home. He was rooted to the spot by the sick feeling that twisted in his gut; the pharmacist was thrashing, trying to throw Len off, and Barry half-wished he could help the guy who did nothing wrong except be in his own bedroom at the wrong time.

 

“Don’t-“ he raised his hand towards the bed, but his feet wouldn’t move. Len whipped around and glared over his shoulder – his eyes were wild and Barry wondered, for the first time, how dangerous this man could be if he truly tried.

  
“Find the potion!” he hissed.

 

The pharmacist kicked out and Len snarled, turning away to focus on keeping the man down.

 

“Don’t hurt him,” Barry whispered through the haze of horror clouding his mind.

  
“GO!”

 

“Don’t hurt him,” Barry repeated, his voice conveying determination he did not feel. “Or I won’t help.”

 

Len shot him another glare.

 

“Longer you stand there, higher the chance of us getting caught – or this guy getting hurt,” he snarled. Nausea rolled through Barry’s stomach like a tidal wave; he had never thought of what Len did when he was out with Cold, he never gave much thought to how Len had gotten those burns, but he could see it vividly now, Len fighting alongside the warlock with the same ferocity that shone in his eyes now.

 

The fear of what was going to happen in this room if he did not meet Len’s demands made his movements sluggish, even though it was a silly sentiment. Barry couldn’t do anything – Len seemed strong, stronger than Barry would ever be with his skinny frame. And Barry never understood it with such startling clarity before. Len had always been gentle with him, soft-spoken and kind; there was never any reason to think about his strength. But at that moment, Barry truly wondered what Len was capable of – and who the girl was that Len would snap at the thought of something happening to her.

 

The memory of that girl, pale and unconscious, caught in a violent seizure, pushed Barry into action. There was no time for doubts right now – he could do something to save her first and worry about the methods later, about who she was, about Len. He pushed himself to think about her health first as he staggered out of the room, wincing when a floorboard creaked under his feet. Doing his best to keep his steps quiet, he snuck down the rickety staircase, heart hammering in his chest. If someone else was in the house, if the pharmacist didn’t live alone, Barry wasn’t sure he could do what Len did, silence someone because they were defending their own home, their property.

 

He descended the stairs and trailed his hand over the wall to find a door in the darkness. The handle gave and opened to a small kitchen combined with a workshop, judging by the herbs hanging everywhere, by the dozens of little bottles lining the walls, shining in the pale light that streamed from the window. The next room was the pharmacy itself, shelves upon shelves of medication, poultices and potions stacked everywhere. For a single second, Barry was certain someone would burst through the heavy front door to arrest him, and his eyes flickered towards the entrance.

 

His heart stopped, and his feet carried him forward, towards the window.

 

He knew this place. He hadn’t been here too often, but the sign on the building across the street was unmistakably that of the inn where Cisco had dragged him that one time, claiming they had the best ale this side of the river.

 

They were in Central. Barry’s hands shook, even as he curled his fingers into fists. How easy it would be to open that door, to walk out, follow the curving alleys and the bank of the river until he reached the university… somewhere in this city, within walking distance, his friends were sleeping, curled up in their beds, dreaming about the discoveries they were going to make, lives they were going to save, and here Barry was, closer to them than he had been in weeks, and stealing from an innocent pharmacist.

 

His insides seized with longing for the life he’d had – in the space of three ragged breaths, Barry imagined himself taking this chance, getting away from Cold’s grasp, going back to his old life, without solitude and despair and the man who he had thought kind and who had wormed his way into Barry’s heart only to reveal that Barry truly knew nothing about him. It hurt, to be so close to an opportunity; Barry had to remind himself that he had a deal with the warlock, and that no matter how hard he would try, no matter how good a horse he would rent, it would still take days before he reached his parents’ home. The thought of finding it burned to the ground tore him out of his trance and he swallowed hard before he managed to turn away from the window.

 

It took a while before he located the potion – he had to uncork a few bottles to sniff at the contents, since he couldn’t see the labels very well in the dim light, and he did not remember the exact name of the potion anyway. Guilt gnawed at his gut as he grabbed a bottle, then two more, just to be sure: they were large enough, but Barry had no way of knowing how much the girl would need, whether someone was doing anything to break her curse or if she was just caught up in Cold’s schemes. Could she be the reason why Len stayed…? Barry’s stomach churned as he walked back through the kitchen, the potion bottles cradled in his arms.

 

The pharmacist wasn’t struggling anymore when he managed to get back to the bedroom – for a split second, Barry froze in place, terrified at the thought that Len had-

 

-but a grunt came from the bed and Len hissed something that sounded like ‘shut up’, which had to mean the pharmacist was still alive.

  
“Did you get it?” Len asked in a tight voice, and Barry nodded before he realized that Len could not see him.

  
“Yes.”

 

“Then let’s move.”

 

Len swung off the bed and the pharmacist drew in a shaky breath – then he was scrambling up just as Len tossed something onto the covers. The brooch glinted before it got buried in the folds of the pharmacist’s comforter.

  
“Payment,” Len grunted and then he was at Barry’s side, pulling him towards the mirror just as the pharmacist started screaming for guards.

  
Len plucked the bottles out of Barry’s grasp. “You first.”

 

“GUARDS!”

 

Barry turned – he wanted to say ‘sorry’, say anything that could help, reason with the frightened, angry man, tell him the brooch would more than cover the cost of the potion that wasn’t so much expensive as it was time-consuming to make – but Len’s hands steadily pushed him towards their escape route.

 

“Go,” Len urged and Barry climbed up on the table. The pharmacist’s screaming got closer and Barry heard a tell-tale sound of a punch and a grunt. He turned just before he fell through the mirror and the pharmacist was on the ground, holding on to his cheek, his screams replaced by loud cursing. Barry’s heart raced as the space beyond the glass engulfed him with its eerie silence. He scrambled back, hands finding purchase despite the strange sensation of nothing underneath him. Len pulled himself through the mirror frame seconds later, the bottles held to his chest like he would rather die than let them break.

 

Barry took a shaky breath, and Len glanced at him. His eyes were kind again, and Barry’s heart skipped a beat. How could he look at Barry like that and then go and almost strangle a man in his own bed…? Barry dragged himself up to his feet and bit the inside of his cheek, taking a deep breath to quell the sickness rising to his throat. There was still a girl who needed his help – he focused on that as a steadying point, and took a step forward, glad that Len’s hands were full with the potions. As much as the strangeness of this place upset him, Barry was not sure he would feel steadier with fingers curled around Len’s knuckles, bruised from hitting an innocent man.

 

They stepped out into Lisa’s room in silence. Her body was twisted into the sheets and her labored breaths echoed sickly through the open space – Barry could see blood drain from Len’s face at the sight of her, and he forced himself to think only of the girl.

 

“Get me a knife,” he commanded, and Len’s eyes snapped up to him as he frowned.

  
“A knife?”

  
Barry sat on the edge of Lisa’s bed and nodded. He did not feel like talking to Len right now and he carefully kept himself from looking at the man, instead choosing to focus on Lisa. He could now allow himself to think about anything except her health at the moment… but he did owe Len an explanation, however brief.

  
“Yes,” he said quietly, “that’s how the potion works. Some curses create a build-up of magic and human bodies can’t handle it. But the magic of a curse is the same as any other, it can be redirected – so the potion draws the excess towards healing. But it needs _something to heal_.”

 

He dared to lift his eyes from Lisa and he saw that Len’s face went pale at the very idea – but he turned and stalked away and Barry let out a slow, relieved breath when he realized it must have meant that Len had not been armed when they were at the pharmacist’s house. Barry knew that the lack of weapons did not mean that Len had not intended to actually hurt the innocent man: maybe he simply had no time to grab a dagger, and in any case, it had certainly appeared that he would’ve been capable of hurting anyone with his bare hands, had the need arisen. But if Barry could draw comfort, however slight, from the thought that Len had not meant to cut anyone’s throat, he would take it, since it was the best he could have at the moment.

 

Len returned mere moments later, holding out the sharpest kitchen knife to Barry, hilt first. Barry accepted the weapon without looking at Len and turned to the girl.

  
“Go,” he said quietly, and he could nearly feel Len’s reluctance in the air, heavy and nervous in the quiet sound of his shuffling feet.

 

“I could-“

 

“Go,” Barry repeated, more firmly and almost pleading. He had to hurt the girl even though she would not feel it in her state, and he doubted Len, who had nearly gone mad at the thought of her pain, her death, would want to see her blood drawn. And if Barry were completely honest with himself, he could not concentrate with Len hovering at his back – the safety and comfort he once drew from the man’s presence was gone, replaced by the image of Len kneeling over the pharmacist, wild and vicious, unrecognizable as the man who taught Barry how to peel tomatoes and smiled at him over herbal tea. Barry did not know who Len was anymore – and he needed space at the moment so he could do his duty as a healer first, without his thoughts straying to the stranger he had thought a friend. And not just that: tears burned behind Barry’s eyes when he thought back to that moment in the library, when he first dared to lean closer, to lean into Len for the first time. And Len had neither pulled away nor pushed Barry off – and Barry felt foolish now when he thought about the joy it had brought him, unspoiled in that moment by what was revealed later about the man’s true nature.

 

The door creaked when it closed behind Len, and Barry let out a sigh: then he drew in a deep breath, steeled his nerves and began the gruesome work.

 

……

 

Len could not say why his feet carried him to the garden. It wasn’t like the place had ever brought him peace. If anything, it reminded him of the time when he had been out of control, when every petal, every blade of grass meant that he was one step closer to mastering his powers. If anything, it reminded him of his sister: Lisa always liked the way the sun reflected against the glass-like flowers. If anything, it reminded him of yet another person struggling against the fate he had brought upon them – she never said she blamed him, but Len still remembered their shared history well enough to know even without words that it had been his fault, his and no one else’s, no matter how much he would have liked to delegate the blame.

 

He was not a good man: and even now, the thing he regretted the most was that certainly Barry could see that now. He had known, when he’d dragged the boy through the mirror, that he was shattering whatever fragile thing was growing between them, stomped out the first flickers of a flame that could have warmed his heart; the fear of ‘Cold’ would truly be the only thing keeping Barry in the manor from now on.

 

And Len, selfish enough to still wish Barry to stay, didn’t know if he should indeed keep the boy around. When Barry first came, Len did not know what to do with him – he still didn’t know what he _should_ do, even though the shameful ideas of what he would _like_ to do burned brighter in his mind every day, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to banish such thoughts with every passing moment, with every smile the boy threw his way with abandon, as if his affection cost nothing.

 

No, maybe it would be best if Barry went – it certainly would be for the boy himself, and no matter how much the thought of Barry leaving twisted like something vicious and painful in Len’s chest, at least he would not have to think less of himself the more he thought of Barry. Once the boy was out of Len’s sight, maybe with time, Len could push him out of his mind as well, and then everything would be as it once was, just him and Lisa against the world.

 

He entertained the thought of letting Barry go – he could do it, once his powers returned. It should not be more than a couple of days, and then he could tell Barry that his debt had been paid in helping Lisa. Except she still needed Barry’s help, that much was blatantly obvious after tonight. Len cast his eyes towards the horizon, where the sky was already growing pale and warm, giving birth to another summer day. He wished, yet again, that he were wiser, that he were a man he should have been for decades already. A man who would know what to do, who could find his way to a solution when he could not see where he was stepping. A man who would protect instead of harm, who would not grow weak at the sight of a boy’s hazel eyes.

 

He did not know how long he sat in silence, staring at the crystalline reminders of his past failures, but the sun was high in the sky when he heard the door open behind his back. Soft footsteps fell against the frosted ground and Len tensed, but too much was at stake for him to pretend he did not know Barry was there.

 

He turned and his breath caught at the sight of the boy’s hands, stained red where the blood had smudged as he no doubt tried to wipe it off. Len searched Barry’s eyes for clues – the boy’s expression was grim, set deep in the lines of his face and Len’s heart skipped a beat as he gathered himself off the ground in haste. Was Lisa-

 

“She’ll be fine,” Barry spoke, words clipped as if he decided not to waste his breath on the likes of Len. He could not even blame the kid – what Len had done to the pharmacist was mild in comparison to what he could do, to what he _had_ done and no doubt would again. Barry must have sensed that somehow, because the boy was many things, but Len would never consider him stupid.

 

Nonetheless, Len’s chest heaved with a relieved sigh. No matter what would happen to him, what Barry’s next move would be, at least Lisa was safe for the moment.

  
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and a tiny flicker of hope dared to rise in his chest. “Is she awake?”

  
However, Barry shook his head. “No. It will take a while, depending on the nature of her curse.”

 

His voice was calm, but it sounded forced, controlled, like he was exerting a great deal of willpower to keep it so. Len clenched his teeth for a moment, but steeled himself for the questions he could see bubbling up to the surface, curiosity mingling with hurt in the boy’s eyes.

  
“You know,” Barry spoke and glanced down – only then did Len see that the knife he had brought was dangling from Barry’s fingers, his hold on the weapon loose and hesitant. “I wanted to ask you to prove to me that you weren’t a warlock. But I saw your burns… you would have healed sooner if you had magic.”

  
Len’s heart dropped at the words – how easy would it be to explain, to tell Barry everything now. How easy, and how foolish. Let him believe the half-truths, he thought, despite the guilt welling up in his chest. Let Barry come to his own conclusions, no matter how wrong they were: they would be more favorable than the truth. He inclined his head in acknowledgement, and Barry’s eyes narrowed; he took a step forward, then halted, as if he could not decide how close he actually wanted to be to Len. It hurt to see the hesitance where before had only been warmth.

 

“So if you’re not a warlock,” Barry continued, biting at his lip. Len hated how the motion drew his eyes toward the soft skin Barry teased with his teeth, how he could not stop looking even when his mind should be focused on matters other than flesh. Always a disgrace, he thought bitterly, and forced himself to look away as Barry regained his words once again. “Why didn’t you tell me about her? About the mirror?”

 

“You made a deal not to enter the north wing,” Len said slowly and wondered how much of a coward one had to be to use his own true self as an excuse. But no matter how twisted, it was the truth, in its own way… and for a reason Len could not grasp, he wanted Barry to keep believing that he and ‘Cold’ were two different people. In a manner of speaking, they _were_ – even though before Barry, he’d long forgotten how to be only ‘Len’, if he ever knew it at all. “Cold must have wanted you away from her.”

 

“And yet you made me break that deal. Who is she?” His words were sharp, stinging like Barry was wielding them as weapons, but by the look of his eyes, it seemed the one getting hurt the most was Barry himself. Len wished he had a way to soothe that ache, but he did not dare think of it too much. “Tell me, Len… you said you didn’t remember anything about yourself, but that wasn’t true, was it?”

 

Oh, of course it wasn’t – but honesty would not smooth things over with the boy who had been so horrified at the tiniest glimpse of what Len was capable of, that was for sure.

 

“She’s… important,” he choked out and Barry rolled his eyes at him, frustrated.

  
“I got that, thank you – but how?! Who is Lisa to you? And to Cold? Why is he keeping her here? Was he the one who cursed her? Did he love her?”

  
“Irrelevant.”

  
“Don’t you dare-“ Barry took another step forward and his hands clenched at his sides, one still holding the knife. Len half-expected an attack – it spoke volumes about what kind of a man he was that his first thought went to violence. Barry wasn’t like that… another reason he should let the boy go, if he were a better man. “Don’t tell me it’s irrelevant. If you’re going to ask me to put myself and my family in danger, I want to know who I’m helping! Do you understand what I risked for you?! If Cold came back-“

 

“He would have been more upset to find her dead, I assure you,” Len sneered, the irony clawing at something in his chest, some part of him that was not yet turned to ice.

 

“Why?! You owe me, Len. You owe me an explanation, at the very least.”

  
“I will be forever in your debt for helping her.”

  
“You… care for her,” Barry spoke, quiet all of a sudden. Len sighed – he could not deny that, not plausibly at least. Lisa was his everything, the sole steady point of his life, and he would not, _could_ not, pretend otherwise.

  
“Yes.”

 

Barry drew in a slow, sharp breath; his shoulders hunched as if the fight left him with an exhale.

 

“I see. You… you should’ve said. Even if _he_ didn’t want me to know.”

 

“Maybe,” Len conceded, remembering how Lisa had hinted that they should tell Barry the truth. She had been right, of course – but Len still wasn’t sure he would’ve done things any other way. Caution brought them a lot further than blind trust ever had, and he would not risk Lisa’s life for anything. Not even the boy who made him feel way too many things he would rather ignore.

 

“Is she the reason why you’re still here?”

 

Len almost wanted to laugh at the irony – how could Barry believe so many misconceptions and still ask questions that rang so right and cut so deep? He found himself nodding slowly, mouth twisted into a wry grimace that could not be called a smile.

 

“Yes.”

 

He wasn’t even lying, this time: Lisa was the reason he was here, in more ways than one. Yes, physically, he was still in this godforsaken house only because of her, because however much Len hated the manor, however many memories jumped out at him from every corner, memories he would rather not have, memories of being lonely and weak and out of control, despised and feared and vulnerable, the manor kept Lisa safe, away from prying eyes and dangerous hands. So he was kept at the manor by Lisa’s presence. But Len also didn’t know whether he would’ve made it this far, kept himself alive, if he didn’t have her to think of. Maybe he would have let himself be captured, or killed – maybe he would have done the deed himself if he didn’t have hope for her recovery.

 

He could not tell it all to Barry, the boy who helped save Lisa just hours earlier. Barry, who was looking at him with a mixture of pity and annoyance, anger slowly overtaking everything and burning like a flame in his eyes.

 

“Why did you lie to me?” he asked, voice tight, and Len winced a little as he looked away, unable to hold Barry’s gaze when he kept doing exactly what the boy was accusing him of at the moment. Lies – they were the cornerstones of Len’s life, holding up everything he was to all the people surrounding him, and he did not know how to abandon that precarious structure to walk free of half-truths and let someone see the twisted, ugly, real him.

 

“Why?!” Barry repeated and took another step forward: the knife clattered to the frozen ground and the boy ran his hands through his sweat-damp hair. “You knew I studied medicine, I could’ve helped her sooner - why did you pretend you didn’t have- that you didn’t _remember_ anyone?!”

 

Len watched in morbid fascination as the heel of Barry’s palm left a pink smudge on his forehead, a small streak of Lisa’s blood on the boy who helped her when Len couldn’t. It felt significant and wrong, like a pact made without one of the sides there to read what was being signed. Len’s eyes shifted to the knife, lying motionless by Barry’s feet, and he knew once again with cold certainty that he had to keep lying. It had taken everything he had in him to leave Barry to cut into his sister’s flesh in order to help her – and that was Barry holding a knife to the sister of ‘Len’, the harmless human servant. What would happen if Barry knew he had such power over the life of the person dearest to ‘Cold’? An image of Lisa’s blood soaking through the sheets, letting her life escape, stood vivid and terrifying before Len’s eyes for a moment, and he swallowed, clenching his jaw to steel himself.

  
“I didn’t trust you,” he said quietly, the only grain of truth he would allow between the two of them. Barry recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

 

“What the hell did you think I’d do to her?! I’m a doctor – or I was trying to be, before I was trapped here. I didn’t hurt _you_ when I had the chance: was that when you finally started trusting me, Len? When I re-wrapped your own injuries every day?! When I spent days in the library trying to figure out who you were when you knew all along? And you still didn’t say- oh,” Barry cut himself off with a soft chuckle, a sound so dry and humorless that it pierced something in Len’s heart like a spear. “You _still_ don’t trust me,” he said quietly, turning his back on Len. The late morning light caught against his skin like gold, and Len didn’t know if the boy reminded him of Lisa because of that, or because he cared more about him than he would like to admit. “You don’t trust me. You just panicked, you didn’t know what to do when Lisa started seizing… I wasn’t your best option. Just the only one.”

 

Len wanted to say something, step forward, touch Barry’s shoulder and tell him it wasn’t true – but while he could keep the lies alive by not correcting Barry when the boy created his own misconceptions, Len could not find it in himself to deny the horrible, nauseating truth when Barry found it on his own. Yes, this was the kind of a man Len was – one who could not take the right path unless it was the only choice he had.

 

Barry laughed sharply and shook his head: “And I was stupid enough to believe that you cared, at least a little bit. But if you did, you would’ve told me about Lisa – and about the mirrors.”

 

Len’s eyes snapped to Barry at that and he frowned. “I couldn’t tell you about those,” he said – he still remembered the moment in the pharmacist’s house, pinning the old man down and trying to keep him quiet, telling Barry to go and wondering if Barry would be back. It would’ve been easy for him to run, and if Len hadn’t been so terrified for Lisa at that moment, he would have been scared that he would never see the boy again. Only his fear for Lisa’s life was enough to show Barry the way through the mirrors – and now, tendrils of ice were twisting around Len’s heart as he thought that Barry might persuade Sam to let him pass through. And the thing Len dreaded the most was that he would have to do… something, make good on the unspoken threat to Barry’s parents if the kid left. He couldn’t let Barry run around and tell everyone that Cold let him leave, let him break their deal without any repercussions… but he didn’t want to hurt the people dear to Barry, or Barry himself.

 

“Why not?” the boy snarled and stalked forward, glaring at Len from up close. “Why not, Len?! I’ve been worried about my parents for so long, and all this time, you knew I could see if they were alright, and you never told me. You lied to me about everything, and I just…” his shoulders hunched as if he crumpled in on himself, and he sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. The blood smudged on his hands was dry already, leaving tiny flakes against his skin, and Len longed to reach out and brush them off, erase any trace of the horrors he’d put Barry through, but he knew it wasn’t that easy. The apology stuck in his throat because it was hollow – he could not say ‘sorry’ and then keep lying to the boy.

 

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” the boy whispered, and his eyes were sad when he lifted them to Len’s face. “I was stupid to believe I ever did.”

 

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked back to the house, leaving Len alone in the lifeless garden.

 

……

 

The guardsman’s heavy steps echoed in the empty hallways as he strode through the palace as quickly as he could. He did not think the message he carried was important enough to warrant running – but the Duke valued information above everything and often, he would react to the strangest, seemingly unimportant messages most violently. The guardsman was not stupid enough to withhold information: he had seen what happened to men who thought they could presume what the Duke would appreciate.

 

Or, rather, he hadn’t seen – nobody ever saw those men again, and the guardsman valued his life enough to make haste even with the silliest news.

 

“Your Grace,” he bowed as soon as he was let into the dining room. It was barely morning still, but the Duke rose early on most days: disturbing the man still in his bed was nearly impossible. The guardsman shivered – while the Duke smiled often and talked in polite, hushed tones more often than not, there was a general aura of power around him, a certain inexplicable air of danger that permeated one’s very bones when in His Grace’s presence for too long.

  
“What is it?” the man spoke, looking up lazily from his plate as he set down the butter knife in his hand. The guardsman was irrationally glad for the gesture, but he did not dare take up too much of the Duke’s time by lingering on his relief.

  
“Your Grace, a pharmacist reported robbery last night.”

 

“Oh?” the Duke lifted one eyebrow, and the guardsman hastened to explain in order to keep the Duke’s invisible annoyance to a minimum.

  
“Only a few potions were stolen – but the man claims that the thieves arrived through a mirror in his bedroom, and disappeared in the same manner. They even left payment… here.”

 

He stepped forward and set the brooch he had taken from the pharmacist: the man had not wanted to part with the only recompense for his trouble, but one mention of displeasing the Duke by withholding possible evidence was enough to make the old man push the brooch into the guardsman’s hands, eyes wide and worried.

 

Duke Harrison stared at the swirls of gold for a moment, then picked it up to inspect it closer. A slow smile spread over his face, innocent at a first glance and yet something icy twisted in the guardsman’s gut. He was glad to see the Duke wave a dismissive hand; when he turned to leave, he could hear the Duke’s quiet whisper:

  
“Interesting.”


	10. Chapter 10

Barry couldn’t sleep.

 

It would have been easy to blame it on the sun rising to the sky if he did not feel exhaustion settling into his bones like lead. His head ached, fuzzy and unfocused as he stared at the intricate pattern of his bedcovers. The floor he was sitting on drained the warmth from his body, despite being so near the fireplace, but Barry could not force himself to move. As soon as he had stepped into his room, he had collapsed there, leaning against the wall with one of his shoulders warmed by the magical flames, breathing heavily and feeling dazed, and he could not remember how long ago that had been.

 

The only thing he could recall was Len’s face, unreadably neutral, and his eyes, full of longing and regret and pain that Barry ached to soothe but couldn’t. He had been naïve, he knew it now: he’d let himself be lulled by the comforting rhythm of days spent with Len. Barry had not even realized how much he had come to depend on Len’s presence – how much easier it was to be separated from his family and friends when he was not completely alone. Barry had been so focused on his reading, on the taste of herbs in the tea Len always brought him, on the fine spiderwebs of lines running up from the corners of Len’s eyes when he smiled, that he forgot to remember that they were still strangers. How easy was it to forget that knowing how a man looked in the mornings and at night, how he smelled after he had been chopping wood, how his fingers felt when they brushed Barry’s knuckles, none of these things were enough to know what festered in the man’s heart. 

 

Len had lied to him. Barry tried repeating that in his mind, tried to hold on to the anger, because rage was the only glue he had to keep pieces of himself from falling apart. But after their talk in the garden, the anger slowly melted into disappointment, and the pressure in his chest pushed tears into Barry’s eyes before he could even try to resist. His vision blurred, but it didn’t matter – he was not looking anywhere. He felt lost, and alone, in a way he had not felt since that very first night when he stood in front of Cold’s gates and did not know what would happen to him. But then Len appeared, and Barry came to trust him, to see him as the only stable, bright point in this forsaken, forgotten manor, came to expect Len to see him the same way, two lonely souls seeking each other out for comfort and guidance and warmth. He would have done things for Len that he was afraid to think of: would have done much more to save him, to keep him alive and well, to make him happier. He had learned to read into every little gesture, every smile and every look and every cup of tea.

 

And all along, Len had been lying to him, keeping the one thing Barry wanted more than anything in the world from him. One glimpse of his parents, to know that they were alright, would have been enough: Barry never would have endangered his parents _or_ Len with an attempt to run away. He would not have _betrayed_ Len – and he had trusted that Len would know it, and would feel the same. It hurt that Len did not trust him with Lisa, but when Barry could no longer hold on to his anger, he understood that it had not been only Len’s secret to tell. Barry could petulantly wish he had been deemed trustworthy enough, could try to cling to the hurt and to the disappointment, but ultimately it was Lisa who suffered from this secret the most: Lisa who could have been helped earlier, but who could also have been harmed, had Barry been someone else. Telling Barry could have put her in danger – from Cold, if not from Barry himself. And who knew if Lisa used to be _something_ to the warlock: who knew who she was to Len? A wife, a fiancée, a girlfriend?

 

The thought made Barry’s heart give a painful twinge. Just another thing he had deluded himself into believing: that the man who held his hand when Barry told him about the accusations against his father felt the same deep longing for him that Barry felt for Len. But he could no longer believe that: not after he saw Len’s eyes when he said she was important, when he admitted she was the reason why he was here. Was he trying to save her, to break her curse, all alone and serving the warlock who had put the curse on her? Was he bound by an oath, a deal just like Barry’s – if so, what was it, and was it broken now that Barry learned about Lisa’s existence? Icy fear gripped Barry’s heart as mental images of Len, frozen to death, jumped up in his head. Would Cold retaliate? Would he know that Barry learned about Lisa – would the magical mirror perhaps tell him?  

 

Swallowing around the knot in his throat hurt. Barry pushed himself up from the ground and looked to the door. The only way to find answers was to seek them first. And seeing as there was no one in this manor he trusted anymore, it did not much matter where he would begin his search.

 

……

 

Barry pushed open the forbidden door, a sense of dread creeping up on him. It was ironic, really, that he did not even know if he feared Cold being there, or Len. He did not have a death wish, but he also didn’t particularly want to talk to Len just yet. He couldn’t – not before he got at least some answers. Not before he saw his parents, made use of the mirror that Len had been keeping from him. Barry was not certain if it would make him more prone to forgive Len, and he did not know if he wanted that. Forgive him, that is: wouldn’t forgiveness only lead to more disappointment?

 

Pushing down the questions he definitely couldn’t answer so easily, Barry slipped into the room and cast a quick assessing look at the sleeping girl. Lisa lay motionless, no spasming or ragged breathing, but something about her was still unnatural, almost eerie. Even when he understood that she must have been placed under some sort of a stasis spell along with her curse, looking at her sent chills down Barry’s spine. He turned away from her, towards the reason why he came here, even if he shouldn’t have.

 

The only extraordinary thing about the mirror was its size. Large enough for two grown men to step through, Barry remembered, and the memory seemed surreal in his mind. Did it really happen? He almost wished he could believe it didn’t. It felt like forever ago, even though he knew it could not have been more than two, maybe three hours.

 

He stepped forward and reached out, but pulled his hand back at the last second. It felt strangely rude to simply touch the mirror – Barry did not know how it worked, whether there was a human soul trapped in it (that was too dreadful to even imagine) or if the mirror had its own magic that had developed an actual personality over the years. It could be hundreds of years old, and Barry did not want to antagonize sentient magic if he could avoid it. Especially since he had a request to make.

  
“Hello?” he spoke softly, feeling a little silly as he stared at his reflection. “Can anyone hear me? Are you there?”

 

He waited for a while, but the mirror kept reflecting his own face, mouth tight and eyes a little too wide, pale and frustrated and thrumming with nervous energy.

 

“Hello,” he tried again, this time a little louder. There was something inappropriate about raising his voice in the room of an unconscious girl, but Barry’s need to see his parents was greater than his good upbringing at the moment. He could worry about making amends later, if he managed to pull this off without Len – or Cold – catching him in the act. Thoughts of Len made Barry wonder what was it that the older man had done to make the mirror respond. He distantly recalled a name being spoken; everything had happened in such a rush that he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he remembered-

  
“Sam?”

 

It was silly to wonder if a magical mirror would agree to be on a first-name basis, but Barry bit his lip nervously anyway.

  
“Sam, please. I… I need your help. Please.”

 

He startled when the seemingly ordinary glass of the mirror suddenly misted over for a short moment and Barry’s reflection rippled into a face that was definitely not his own. The brown hair was close to Barry’s own, but that was where the similarity ended: his features were much sharper, more severe, even though he did not look very old.

 

“You called?” the mirror man asked, and his thin mouth curled up in a half-amused, half-sardonic smirk.

 

“Y-yes,” Barry nodded, still a bit shocked that he was actually talking to a magical mirror… with a face of its own. He had heard Sam’s voice before, he just did not expect the mirror to have a distinct appearance. Maybe it was a reflection of someone else, from long ago? Barry did not have it in him to ask, even if his mind, honed by months spent at the university, demanded about a dozen answers at once. His heart, however, navigated through the mess of half-formed questions to the only one that mattered.

 

“Can you help me?”

 

“Is something wrong with Lisa?” the mirror man’s eyes shifted to the bed, a deep frown etching lines into his forehead. It appeared that he cared about Lisa as well: was that why he had opened the way through the mirror world? Len had mentioned that Cold would not be happy if Lisa died in his absence: maybe Sam was simply complying with orders from the warlock. However, the look in his dark brown eyes was fond, almost too gentle for Sam’s harsh face. There was no doubt that he cared for Lisa, as much as a personification of some old magic could develop feelings. What was it about this girl that she had the love of so many- Barry’s jaw clenched and he forbade his mind to go there. He would not think of Len when he had such short time to persuade the mirror man to check on his parents. He could at least assuage some of his fears about the girl he so clearly cared for.

 

“No, she’s fine,” Barry shrugged, “for now at least. I can’t determine what her curse is yet-“

 

To his surprise, Sam merely scoffed in response: “We know what the curse is. We’ve always known.”

  
“For real?” Barry blinked: Len did not mention that. Just another secret… the heartache at that thought was becoming uncomfortably familiar, dull and burning, tucked behind Barry’s breastbone and impossible to forget.

 

“Yes. It’s not even a curse, not a real one – her soul’s been scattered across the land. She needs the pieces back.”

 

Sam’s eyes remained on Lisa, regret and longing making them shine a little too much. Barry shivered at the thought of soul magic: not only was it extremely difficult, but tampering with someone’s soul always left a mark. Every professor at the university who even dared talk about it told them that soul magic happened at a great price: it was dangerous even when performed in stable, controlled environments. There was nothing easy about pinching off even the tiniest bit of someone’s soul – it was all that made a person themselves, their memories, their childhood, every single thing they have seen or said or learned. To think that all of it would be scattered all over, with no regard for the poor girl’s future… Barry grit his teeth and frowned.

  
“Did Cold do it?” he asked grimly. If so, then Cold was even more terrifying than Barry would have thought. Only the most powerful – and the most _ruthless_ – of warlocks would even dream of utilizing their magic that way.

 

He did not know whether to feel relief or worry when Sam laughed, dark eyes meeting Barry’s.

 

“No, no, he’d never-“ Sam’s  smile faltered mid-sentence, gave way to a frown. “Anyway, what did you need?”

 

Barry carefully stored the ‘never’ into his memory – was it funny to the mirror man that Cold would wield such power, or that he would use it against Lisa? Was there another warlock, someone who was responsible for Lisa’s state? Someone more powerful, more terrifying than Cold? Just the thought gave Barry a chill, and he quickly focused on Sam’s question. That was why he was here, after all – not to dig up half-truths and hints about Cold.

  
“I would like to see my parents. Please.”

 

His request was met with silence, and Barry’s breath caught on the heavy worry in his chest. Yet, it was impossible to push down the hope that was quickly growing in his bruised heart – but after a tense moment, the mirror man just shook his head.

  
“No.”

  
“Please,” Barry stepped forward, wishing there was a way he could make Sam understand. If he was just a projection, just magic personified, then he would not know what it was to have parents, to be worried for the people who raised him, loved him, always helped when they could… but Barry knew, and he had to know that his actions did not bring misfortune to them.

 

He took another step closer to the mirror and reached out, more a pleading gesture than anything else. “Please, you have to-”

 

His fingers barely touched the sleek surface when a jolt prickled his skin and Barry pulled his hand back with a gasp. He blinked in confusion and then frowned when he saw that Sam was smirking, oddly pleased with himself.

  
“I don’t have to do anything,” he snapped, his image sharpening slightly in the mirror, as if the colors themselves wished to attack Barry. “And you would do well to remember how to talk to a warlock, boy.”

 

That gave Barry another pause as he cradled his stung fingers to his chest, eyes growing wide.

  
“You’re a warlock?”

 

 “What did you expect?” Sam’s eyebrow rose in an unimpressed grimace. “Of course I am. Or did you think I was just a talking piece of glass?”

 

He sounded affronted, and Barry frowned at the implications. Did Sam have any power outside of his mirrors? Could he attack Barry if he so wished: _would_ he, to get in Cold’s good graces? Who even _was_ more powerful out of the two warlocks, and was Barry in danger of having to make another deal to get out of here alive and well? Maybe it had not been the wisest idea to come here with a request about his parents… it was bad enough that they had come into contact with Cold. Barry should not bring another warlock’s attention to them.

 

He was not aware of shifting backwards, away from the wall, but he must have, because the warlock gave him a spectacularly annoyed (but not particularly malicious) look.

  
“I am trapped in my mirror world, boy. No need to look at me like I’m going to stab you.”

  
“So you… work with Cold?” Barry asked, worry swirling in his mind as he thought about the ice warlock: would Sam tell him about Barry’s visit, about his questions and demands? But that was one of the reasons why he came here, after all: to ask the mirror man to keep quiet about Barry having broken the deal in the first place. It had been only to save Lisa’s life, but Barry would not bet on Cold’s understanding. Warlock or not, Barry could at least _try_. Maybe his efforts would not be in vain: at the mention of Cold, Sam’s mouth twisted into a bitter grimace.

  
“I wouldn’t say _with_.”

 

What did that mean? Was it possible that Cold knew how to trap and blackmail other warlocks? Barry remembered the rumors that he could beat others like him in a fight, even when there were more of them – Len had not denied those claims either. But winning a fight and forcing another warlock to do his bidding were quite different things, and it made Barry wonder. Warlocks were vicious, selfish and arrogant, and it could not be easy to make one of them do anything. Was there a specific hierarchy – was there an actual _society_ of warlocks, with a specific role and status for each of them, or was it just Cold’s raw power that gave him the ability to trap another, to use Sam for his own purposes? Barry once again regretted the severe lack of accurate research on warlock behavior, other than greed and violence. Without any further information, he felt out of his depth talking to one of them, not knowing what to expect.

 

“Have you talked to him already?” he asked in the end, because even if Cold was not home, Sam could obviously reach him through any other mirror: and if the mirror warlock already talked to his master, then Barry did not need to waste any time asking him for cooperation.

  
Sam’s mouth twisted up again, disconcertingly sharp in the mirror, like a painting done in too deep a color. “You want to know if I’ll tell him what you’ve done. You and… Len.”

  
“Will you?” Barry asked, worrying at his lip with his teeth. It sounded like Sam had not talked to Cold yet after all, but the strange way he said Len’s name twisted Barry’s guts with anxiety. The day before, he would have wondered what reason would Sam have to mistrust Len – how could a warlock sound so bitter about a mere human servant. But now, after _everything_ … Barry was more upset over the fact that he could sympathize with Sam, in a way. It had seemed that Len and the mirror warlock were on friendly terms last night – but now that Barry saw that grimace, he wondered if it had not only been for Lisa’s benefit… and what Len could have done to make a warlock wary of him. A small, reckless part of Barry wanted to ask: but he had a feeling that the answer would be more than he could bear.

  
“No,” Sam shook his head, the gesture oddly distorted on the flat surface of his mirror. His smirk looked like he knew something that Barry didn’t, like he was answering Barry’s question while knowing it was not the _right_ one. And once again Barry dearly felt the loss of that fragile stability he’d had in Len’s presence: it was terrifying to be stuck in a place where he could trust no one, a place he had thought empty at first.

 

“Really?” Barry swallowed – having just reminded himself that he couldn’t trust anyone here, it was difficult for him to believe even a simple yes or no.

  
“I have no great love for Cold, kid,” Sam shrugged, and his eyes trailed towards the bed, towards the motionless shape of the cursed girl. It was at that moment that Barry knew that this warlock would work with Cold, with Len, with _Barry_ , if it meant saving her – and that maybe, Len was not the only one who had been trapped in this house by his love for the girl. Barry wished he were brave (or crude) enough to ask Sam about the girl, and who Lisa was, who she _used_ to be to them.

  
“Was there anything else you wanted?” Sam spoke up after a while, and only then did Barry realize he’d been staring at Lisa too. Sam’s voice sounded a little softer, quieter, as if the sight of her unmoving body subdued him a little. Barry imagined Cold, terrifying in his rage, and for the first time it occurred to him that the first time they met, the warlock could have been… worried. About Lisa, about her safety, about what Barry’s presence would mean for her.

 

No. Barry refused to ascribe any feelings to the warlock: people with even half a heart did not simply trap others for their pleasure or convenience. They did not make deals with people’s lives, did not threaten to hurt anyone, didn’t kill for personal gain or for entertainment. Cold was a monster, and Barry had to keep that in mind.

  
“Kid?” Sam prompted, and Barry’s eyes snapped away from Lisa.

 

“Could you show me my parents?” he pleaded one last time. “I need to know if they’re alright.”

  
The mirror warlock squinted at him, and for a moment, Barry thought that he wouldn’t budge, but to his great surprise, Sam nodded, sighing:

 

“Fine. But just because I know it won’t make Cold happy, at all.”

 

Barry froze – he did not want anyone to get in trouble. Sam _had_ helped them earlier; it was difficult to see the mirror man as Cold’s kind. After witnessing the blatant, unabashed love in his eyes when he glanced Lisa’s way, Barry could not quite reconcile the image of Sam with what he knew about selfish and heartless warlocks. And who knew what power Cold held over Sam?

 

But the mirror man did not seem to notice Barry’s concern.

 

“What’re your parents’ names, kid? And you do realize this will only work if they have a mirror.”

 

Barry eyed the warlock with mild displeasure: he was not stupid, but he did not want to anger Sam by pointing it out, in case he changed his mind about helping.

   
“Henry and Nora Allen. There used to be a small mirror above the washbasin in their cabin, it should still be there.”

 

“Should be enough,” Sam shrugged again and his image disappeared from the mirror.

 

Only the fear of missing a glimpse of his parents prevented Barry from pacing. He missed them every day, but being away at the university made him get used to their absence even before all this. It was only now that he recalled the full extent of his deal with Cold. Would he ever get to see them again for real? He had told himself that he only wanted to see if they were alright – but now that he was waiting for Sam to find their cabin, Barry’s stomach churned nervously and he felt like he would be sick any minute.

 

The strange mist inside the mirror cleared up suddenly, in just a small space that looked like someone had wiped their hand across a foggy window. The face of Barry’s father appeared, soap slicking his cheeks and making the razorblade’s way easier as it glided down his face with swift, steady motions Barry used to admire when he was a little boy. His throat tightened at the sight and for a second, he was terrified that his father would be startled by the sight of Barry and cut himself – but it quickly became apparent that Sam had only made the mirrors work one way.

 

Henry Allen looked… exhausted. He was thinner than Barry remembered, his skin pale and the circles under his eyes the black-blue shade of not enough sleep and too much worrying. But he was alive, and the simple sight of him shaving without even knowing that his missing son was watching him tightened Barry’s throat so much it hurt. His nose and eyes burned with the unshed tears which he violently pushed down – he would not cry and distort the only glimpse of his family he would ever have. Because he could not let himself hope that this was more than a one-time deal: he should be thankful to Sam even for this much. Nevertheless, it wasn’t enough; Barry’s hands twitched at his sides, longing to reach out, through the mirror and to his father.

  
“What about my mother?” he whispered as he studied every line in his father’s face: most of them, he had memorized through the years, but it seemed that several new ones had been etched around Henry Allen’s mouth and eyes recently. A deep line cut through his forehead, as if he’d been frowning ever since Barry left: but at least he was alive, and free, and he could help others the way Barry wouldn’t have been able to for years to come.

  
“I can only see what the mirror shows me,” Sam’s voice echoed, and Barry was glad that he left the image of his father up in the mirror a little longer. But then, Henry leaned down and disappeared from the mirror’s field of vision, probably to splash his face with water after the shave. When he looked up again, he was rubbing his cheeks with a towel and then he was walking away, leaving Barry to look at the opposite wall of their cottage. The sudden sense of loss cramped his stomach and Barry had to swallow the quiet, unhappy noise that was lodged in the back of his throat.

 

He did not dare ask for more, but when Sam’s face reappeared in the mirror, the warlock gave him a knowing look anyway. “I can look back a few times – they won’t see me, don’t worry – and I’ll let you know… the next time you come to check on Lisa.”

 

Barry recognized a bargain when he heard it, feeling mildly offended by the implication that he would not do his best to help Lisa if he did not get anything in return. His pride as someone who once hoped to become a doctor prevented him from letting it slide without correcting Sam’s assumptions – even if he would never be a true doctor now, and his pride held very little value here, it was the only thing he had. If he let himself lose sight of who he once was outside these walls, then he would truly have nothing left – and so, he explained, even if he knew he should play the warlocks’ game of quid pro quo.

  
“I would help her anyway,” he said, and the mirror warlock raised an eyebrow.

 

“That’s what makes you so foolish, kid. And dangerous.”

 

With that, he disappeared, leaving Barry to wonder what he meant. Dangerous? No – he was just a student, a _human_ , he couldn’t do anything that would threaten a warlock. His eyes were drawn to the sleeping girl and he felt his stomach turn at the thought that someone might believe him capable of hurting an unconscious person, a patient, just to get what he wanted. Barry could feel himself frowning as he remembered Len and the pharmacist again. Maybe the warlocks and the humans grew alike, in the manor’s vast, cold space, trapped by the looming walls – but Barry refused to let his heart harden like that. He would not let himself become like them… but even as he thought it, he dreaded to imagine what he would do if his parents were in danger. Exhaustion was settling into his bones now, weariness and relief from knowing that his father, at least, was alright: he would’ve looked worse if something had been wrong with Barry’s mother, so he was confident that both his parents were doing fine.

 

_For now_ , a traitorous little voice in Barry’s head hissed. He bit his lip, refusing to think about it

 

……

 

Crystalline petals and leaves clinked under Len’s touch as he walked slowly through the garden. He could not bring himself to go back to the house: he knew that he should, but even the idea of the well-known, shadowy corridors made breathing harder, and Len knew that he needed air, not only in his lungs but above him, a clear sight of nothing else but the sun whose warmth always got lost somewhere on the way to the manor.

 

Len did not mind; the chill in the air made him shiver, made him feel a little more alive than he usually did. It felt a little like sacrilege, to breathe in and out and notice every heartbeat in his chest while knowing he was walking through a graveyard. He did not remember names or faces anymore, but he knew they were there, buried deep underneath the glittery trees, under the glass-like clusters of roses and the sharp blades of icy grass. Len’s steps crunched on the frozen ground, and he wondered where exactly was he stepping – he had not been in his right mind, that night when he had created the garden. His powers had been running wild, impossible to tame, and he could not say whether the path winding through the garden wasn’t someone’s grave.

 

There was no one left to remember but him, anyway, and he never needed empty, engraved words to mark his failures.

  
He nearly startled when he heard a voice calling his name – for one blood-curdling moment, he wondered if he was finally going mad, hearing the voices of those who have died because of him. He twisted around and his palm caught on the rosebush’s thorns – it hurt for a second, but the ice wasn’t sharp enough to cut through skin.

  
“Lenny.”

 

It was Lisa; she always liked the garden, ever since she first appeared before him in her shimmery, incorporeal form, and he never had the heart to tell her that the beauty she so admired was rooted in rows upon rows of bones. He schooled his expression so that the past haunting him would not be reflected in his eyes, and breathed a sigh of relief. He had not expected to see her, but he was glad she was here, after that last night of panic and terror gripping his heart at the thought of losing her.

  
“Everything alright?” he asked, and she gave him a pointed look. He nearly laughed – of course it wasn’t, she was still floating above ground, a mirage instead of a girl, but at least she was definitely not dead.

  
“I’m weak. I almost couldn’t come,” she sighed, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she turned her face up to the sun. Len, like many times before, wondered if she could feel the warmth or if she was acting human out of habit, out of a desperate wish to be what she wasn’t.

 

Len could understand that wish to his very bones.

 

“The magic supposedly doesn’t agree with your body,” he shrugged, remembering what Barry said, words only, pushing away all the conflicting feelings swelling up in his chest, threatening to choke him at the memory of the boy. “There’s a potion that drains the excess away – might be why it’s harder for you to appear.”

 

She did seem more translucent, now that he looked closer; he’d ascribed it to the brightness of the day, but her edges were blurred, her legs barely there all the way up to her knees, her hands like strokes of diluted paint on a canvas, a suggestion more than a shape. The strands of her hair twined and faded into the sunrays as if she were becoming the light, and Len’s heart clenched again at the sight.

 

“I’m weak,” she repeated, her eyes the only sharp thing about her as they bore into him. Len thought he saw an accusation in her gaze, but he could not be sure – so much of her was like starlight, prone to blur and dim if he looked at her directly. “It took me hours to take some shape, but I heard things, anyway.”

 

He turned away – he knew what she was going to say and he wished she wouldn’t, but he lacked the strength to stop her, mere hours after he’d thought he would never hear her voice again.

  
“You have to talk to him, Lenny,” she sighed and he winced: he did not want to hear this, did not want to listen to her telling him that he should let Barry in, when he’d already let the young man come too close. Len had forgotten what freedom meant, freedom to be himself without wearing a mask, how it felt to talk to someone and not think about how he had to be strong for his sister, how he had to appear a leader to a group of volatile warlocks. He’d forgotten how that freedom tasted, he’d learned how to keep himself sealed up tight, but Barry unlocked it all, made everything spill out and now, Len had to pick up the pieces and put them away again. He had to _stop_ letting Barry in, and Lisa’s words were just making that decision even harder.

  
“No,” he said, one word so short that he did not have to worry too much about his voice cracking, but he bet Lisa could see all the cracks regardless, in the way he refused to look at her. “There’s no point.”  
  
“The point is he thinks you don’t trust him. And we both know that’s not true. Hasn’t he proven himself already, Len? He helped me, didn’t he? And I don’t see him trying to kill me, or use me against you.”

 

It sounded reasonable, but Lisa was forgetting the most important thing. Len turned to her with a bitter smirk:  
  
“Question is – would he, if he knew who I am?”

  
She considered it for a moment, though he had a feeling she was humoring him more than actually thinking about it. The dryness in her quiet voice was proof enough of that:

 

“Probably not. You can’t truly believe Barry’s the same as Eo-“

 

“Don’t,” he hissed sharply before she could finish, revive the name he had been trying to forget and never could. She startled, her image quivering in the air, but her frown deepened when she looked at him again, defiant and determined.

  
“I’ve figured it out long ago, Lenny. I might’ve been sixteen and blind back then, but I’ve had a lot of time to think and-“

 

“Lisa.”

  
“No, you need to hear this,” she snapped back and crossed her arms over her chest. It looked like the paleness of her arms and her dress was melting together, creating a dizzying shimmer. Len wished he could only focus on what he was seeing, not on the things she was trying to say. He’d spent too long pretending she did not know – but of course, he should not have been so naïve. “I never blamed you for any of it. What he did to you, to me… it was his fault. _His_ decision. You were young and you loved him-“ Len drew in a sharp breath at the words that he never dared speak out loud on his own, but Lisa didn’t let it distract her, “-and he betrayed your trust. He used _me_ against you, and it’s horrible, but it doesn’t mean you should never trust anyone again. Barry’s not like that, and I think you know it too.”

 

Len’s jaw tightened and he shook his head, but she didn’t let him speak just yet: she floated closer and stretched out one blurry hand towards him, and Len desperately wished he could take it and hold it for a while.

 

“You don’t have to tell me about it. Any of it. Just think about yourself for a change, will you?

 

“I can’t just abandon you,” he croaked, and her hand fell to her side, the corners of her mouth curving up in a tight, sad smile.

 

“I know. But maybe I’m- maybe we’re close. And what will you do after I wake up? Sit around in this huge, empty house, wondering what could’ve been if you only hadn’t been too afraid to reach for something you clearly want?”

 

This time, he was the one to startle, at the words that felt like Lisa had pulled them out of the darkest corner of his heart. He did not know if it was the threat of not being able to materialize so easily, or if she was afraid of something else, but the urgency in her eyes and the bluntness in her words convinced Len that she was terrified, and she wanted to say everything while she still could. Once more he regretted not being able to touch her, to hold her close and tell her it was going to be fine – because the truth was, he didn’t know if it would be, and the scary part was that she knew it too.

 

It felt like another failure, like he should have been her big brother, her protector to the very end, and now she saw through his mask and knew that he was nothing more than a fraud.

 

“I love you, Lenny, I do,” she spoke, as if she knew what was going through his head, her golden eyes kind and sad in her translucent face, “I love you and I will be forever grateful for all you have done, for all you’ll still do – but you can’t build your life around protecting me forever. Not a real life, the kind you deserve.”

 

He didn’t deserve anything, and certainly not a kind-hearted boy like Barry – but he could not say that out loud, no matter what Lisa knew or thought about him. It was one thing to privately, secretly admit to his most shameful desires, lurking in the back of his mind at all times, and another to speak of them in front of his baby sister, even if she did not look like a child right now, eerie and crystalline in the golden daylight, like she belonged to the graveyard garden in all her glory. The thought chilled Len to the bone, and sobered him up a little.

 

“Helping a sick girl in her time of need is not the same as stealing or hurting people,” he shook his head. “And you know I can’t just decide not to do that, Lis.”

 

He was certain, now more than ever, that while Barry might not actively try to harm Lisa, he would also not condone everything Len had to do in order to bring back the pieces of his sister’s soul, to give her the full life she deserved. Barry would not agree – and he most certainly wouldn’t _help_.

  
“Stealing isn’t everything,” she rolled her eyes, and Len sighed, rubbing a hand down his face in frustration.

  
“Then what would you have me do? What exactly is the right proportion of lies to truth that will make him- that will make this better?”

 

She studied him for a moment, her eyes sad as if she could see something in Len’s expression that remained hidden to him.

  
“You need to think about what _is_ ‘better.’ For you, and for him,” she spoke in the end, and the soft summer breeze, cooled where it brushed through the branches of the ice trees, nearly carried her quiet words away. “He risked a lot to help us, Lenny; he would not talk if you let him go. We both know that – and you’re keeping him here anyway. Don’t you think that he should be given a choice, like we never had?”

 

Len could feel his blood freeze in his veins, at the insinuations Lisa was making without stating them outright. Long ago, they had been manipulated into a situation where they could not choose freely – what Lisa was asking meant more than giving Barry freedom to choose whether he stayed or left. What she truly wanted, and Len could see it now, was for him not to be like the man they both despised, the warlock who had robbed them both of their lives and their choices. He’d manipulated them because he’d wanted something from them, and he’d turned Len’s own heart against him like a weapon.

  
And Len refused to let such bitterness seep into Barry’s kind soul, to have Barry blame himself for someone else’s calculating maneuvers.

 

He couldn’t tell Barry he was Cold – but he could clear the air between them, let Barry know that Len _did_ trust him, as much as he could. He could try to put into words the things that were lurking in the shadows of his consciousness, impossible to shake and difficult to see clearly. He could make Barry see that he had not been stupid in believing that Len cared – he could, and he would, for the sake of his own old hurts that never quite healed, and for the sake of Barry, who did not deserve to carry the same scars.

  
“I need to talk to him,” he said, turning towards the house; it looked vast and distant, all of a sudden, and Len wondered how easy it was to forget that this place had never really been _home_. Lisa’s projection dimmed as the sun rose higher, sunrays stabbing through her wispy body as if they wanted her to leave. She nodded her head, once, slowly and meaningfully, and then she was gone, dissolved in the sharp mid-day light. Len suppressed the shudder that gathered at the base of his spine at the thought that she might not be able to come back anytime soon. He could not think like that – he had to hold on to the slivers of hope he still had left, because there were things he needed to do, to say… to face.

 

With a newly determined set to his jaw, he strode to the house, assembling and disassembling words in his mind to figure out how to say what he had never before dared to claim out loud.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks goes to Gemenice and mockingbird-22 for beta work <3

Barry felt exhaustion like a physical weight on his shoulders, bending his spine and filling his head with fuzzy confusion. It was relief, partly, that clouded his mind – relief at seeing that at least his father was alright, even if the traitorous little voice in the back of Barry’s brain kept whispering unsettling questions about the time he had left, for his parents and for himself. What was it that Cold would eventually want from him? Would he find out about Barry helping Lisa, would he be mad? Would he decide that Barry deserved punishment more than a task to fulfill, would he render their deal void and truly keep Barry here forever? It was not like Barry had a time frame to work with; he had promised to stay, as long as Cold did not hurt his parents, as long as Cold _needed_ him to stay.

 

But what was it, exactly, that Barry was needed for? The uncertainty was making him feel unsteady on his own feet and he stretched out a hand to the nearest wall as he left Lisa’s room, mind whirring with all the strange conversations he’s had in this house. With the warlock – _warlocks_ , now. With Len. Barry did not know what to think about any of it: all he knew was that the thought of his parents was a constant dull ache in his heart, but the memories of Len, all the cherished, warm memories of the past weeks, have turned sour now, sour and burning and sharply painful. He clenched his teeth, trying to suppress the anger, the hurt, the disappointment, but it only worked halfway through the maze of conflicted feelings. Len lied to him, Len kept him from seeing if his parents were alright, and Barry had no way of knowing how much of everything Len told him was true. Was any of it? Barry had to take a deep breath at the thought, push down the pressure in his chest so he wouldn’t suffocate on his own assumptions.

 

Once again, he’s managed to fall for someone who did not feel the same, who already loved someone else. When Iris had turned to Eddie, before Barry could have found the courage to voice what was in his heart, it had hurt so badly he thought he would never love again. He’d spent his days smiling, telling her how happy he was for her, and his nights awake, hurting and trying his best to forget what he could never have. But what did it say about him that he went and did the very same thing again? Had his heart learned nothing, running away from him like this? It was pathetic, really, when he paused to give it a thought. He’d fallen for Len, completely and desperately, and maybe it was a simple matter of craving human contact in a place cut off from the world. Maybe it was not even love – but it hurt in the same way as it had with Iris, as if he would never take another breath without remembering what was missing in his heart.

 

And through all that, through all the pain and betrayal, through every rational fiber of his mind telling him that he should not… he still longed for Len, for the easy companionship, for Len’s touch, for his smile, for that intense look in his eyes. He could not allow himself to fall apart like this – he had to keep it together, for his parents and for himself, for a chance to return to the real world that had more people than warlocks, more chances for his heart to finally get it right at least once. He had to keep away from Len, because he couldn’t stand the thought-

  
“Barry!”

 

He whipped around, and there he was, the man he should not see while his heart was so confused, walking briskly down the corridor and blocking Barry’s only escape route. For a single second, Barry’s heart clenched tight, hope and expectation and fear because he was once again where he should not be. He turned away, unable to watch Len approach, and he wondered what would happen if he simply continued deeper into the north wing, if he tested the doors as he had that day when he had found Cold with Lisa. One of the rooms was bound to be open, offering sanctuary… but before he could spring into action, Len was already at his side, making Barry twist away from him, gaze trained on the intricate snowflake patterns of the candle holder just in his line of vision.

 

“Barry,” he repeated, as if that were a statement of its own; Barry clenched his jaw and swallowed everything welling up in his chest, allowing only the disappointment and the betrayal to resurface.

 

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he said, and he wished he had the guts to look at Len as he spoke the words. He didn’t; if he so much as glanced Len’s way, he knew that it would all spill over, all the feelings he should’ve known better than to have.

 

“Barry-“

 

There was a note of hurt in Len’s voice, desperation and a silent plea, and Barry couldn’t bear this.

 

“No,” he said, more resolute than he felt. He pushed away from the wall, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Not now, Len. I can’t. I just… can’t.”

 

“Hear me out, Barry. That’s all I ask.”

 

Every time his name fell from Barry’s lips, it fell heavy, like a direct blow, leaving him aching and confused.

 

“Why? So you can lie to me some more? I’ve had enough of that, thank you very much.”

 

He pushed away from the wall, fully intending to escape. His mind kept chanting ‘let me leave, just let me leave’ as he took a step, then another and another, his legs carrying him towards the staircase, around Len, but his mind was reeling. For one heartbeat, he thought he would get away- and then Len’s hand brushed his knuckles, caught his wrist, curled around him like a shackle and kept him in place. He almost keened at the simple touch, stomach turning with want and with fear.

 

“Barry.”

 

He nearly looked up, _nearly_ , feeling his resolve giving way under the weight of the desperation in Len’s voice.

 

“I trust you.”

 

Tears prickled at the edges of his vision as he stood there, weary and stretched too thin, on the verge of breaking.

 

“How can you say that?” he forced out, throat hurting like the words were being physically torn from him. “I know what trust looks like, Len, and this is not it.”

 

Len’s fingers twitched around Barry’s wrist, but they didn’t let go. He looked up then, and he saw that it was Len’s turn to avert his gaze to the ground.

 

“I have trusted only a handful of people in my life,” the man spoke quietly, “and one of them is the reason why I’m here.”

 

“So… what?” Barry asked, feeling impossibly cruel – his heart was already telling him to turn his hand, lace his fingers with Len’s and hold him, show him that some people were worth the leap of faith, that Barry could be trusted, that he would never do anything to hurt Len in any way. But a mean, vindictive, cowardly part of him was shouting for attention, screaming that if he gave in now, he would only be setting himself up for more pain. “Do you want me to forget every lie you told me, so that you can tell new ones? It doesn’t matter if you say you trust me now, Len – _now_ , you’ve made it all about whether or not I trust _you_.”

 

Barry never associated pain with any particular color, but the way Len’s eyes looked in that moment as he glanced up from the floor, focused on Barry, gaze flickering as if Len was punishing himself by forcing himself to withstand the scrutiny… he didn’t think he would ever forget that. Pain, from then on, would always be this particular shade of raw, piercing blue.

 

“I trust you,” Len whispered again, barely audible, and Barry knew he should look away, _move_ away, but he couldn’t find the strength to do so. “I have forgotten how… but I do.”

 

It hung between them, words heavy like strong wine that could be laced with poison and one would never know. The silence stretched, pained and fragile; Barry took a deep breath when he remembered to. Len’s gaze burned through him, forcing him to believe, wrangling Barry’s heart into the well-known trap of longing for this man so deeply it felt like a part of his blood, of his flesh, the marrow in his bones.

 

He took another breath, deep and shaky, and it felt like his mind was controlled by magic, like he could think of nothing else but Len’s fingers still wrapped around his wrist, sharp, real points of contact that did not allow his thoughts to stray. He tried to struggle against it, to build up at least one wall to hide behind, to give him the strength to say no, to walk away and settle his thoughts. He could not fall into the same trap of silent deceit; he would not allow Len to fool him again.

 

“I can’t,” he breathed, just above a whisper, “Len, I can’t, not this again- you won’t tell me anything, and I know I can’t blame you for your secrets – rationally, I know this, but I still _do_ and… I just can’t. It’s unfair to you, and I just-”

 

He managed to break the spell then, his hand slipping out of Len’s grasp surprisingly easily. He needed to move, and so he did, even though he had no idea where he was going. His only thought was ‘ _away_ ’ – his only wish was to escape this horrid, lonely place, the looming walls that seemed to be closing in on him, trapping the air in his chest to the point of pain. He didn’t know how he got to the grand staircase; he nearly slipped as he took the stairs two at a step, down, down and away. The main gate, unassuming and silent, kept calling to him, the images of the forest beyond, the path that would take him back, one way to the city, to the university that was his home for long, blissful months, another way to his real home, back to his parents, for whom he longed so badly at this moment it was like a sharp ache lodged in his heart.

 

The thought of his parents was what stopped him from reaching for the handle of the gate: he couldn’t put his mother and his father in even more danger by purposefully breaking his deal with Cold. It was one thing to wish to help an unconscious, cursed girl, one who, by all accounts, even Cold cared about, in any sick, twisted way a warlock could care about anyone. But if he walked out now, he might not even get home – or anywhere – in time before Cold swooped in and destroyed any hopes Barry could ever have of seeing his loved ones again.

 

He still needed air – the walls seemed to get taller by the second, threatening to bury him in this awful place for all eternity. With a new burst of determination, Barry spun around and stalked down the hall, through the large dining room (the place where he’d first seen Len, an ordinary servant clearing the table, and how naïve Barry had been to trust him so quickly). The kitchen blurred by, and he forced himself not to think about Len’s warmth radiating along Barry’s side as he was shown how to cook, how to cut (and how well Len knew how to do the latter).

 

He burst out of the narrow side door, into the world that had no right to be so radiant when a heavy storm raged in Barry’s mind. But everything was cold here – there was no comfort to be had in this garden, dead and frosty like everything else in this place. Barry craved life, something ephemeral like whispering leaves on real trees, tiny shoots of new plants under his feet, the smell of decaying leaves and fresh greenery, berries smearing against his fingertips as he picked them off the bush.

 

All he was left with was ice, everywhere he looked, forced by vicious magic into grotesque caricatures of the living world, too eerie, too still to offer any consolation. He took a sharp breath and instantly hated the chill that permeated his lungs; on a whim, he reached for the nearest rose, harsh and crystalline. He wanted to break it off, crush something Cold created as Barry felt crushed by his imprisonment: but the vision of his father, haggard in his worry, stayed his hand. He held on to the translucent stalk, though, until his fingers hurt from the cold, until the ice gave way under his touch, little by little. There was something vengefully, cruelly satisfying about the tiny droplet that slid down Barry’s palm, to his wrist – it felt like a teardrop, another caricature of the real thing standing in for all the tears Barry could not shed out of sheer exhaustion.

 

The worst of it all was that even the garden reminded him of Len. He had asked about Barry’s time at the university, that day in the kitchen, and Barry had not been able to answer, too caught up in the same suffocating feeling that was making his breathing ragged and pained even now. And Len had stepped down, hadn’t pushed for an answer that Barry could not have given: instead, he had taken Barry outside, shown him the diamond-like flowers glinting in the sun. Barry remembered how he felt when he first saw the icy trees, the tiny petals of the flowers sparkling in the soft light of the day; it was still beautiful now, but he had a much harder time appreciating it all when he could only think about the garden being at fault for him being here in the first place.

 

And wasn’t he doing the same as he had that first time, delegating blame left and right for a series of unfortunate events? For everything that was not the ice’s fault… or Len’s? Barry thought back to that day, the way he had stormed out of the garden after screaming at Len, thoroughly upset about something the man had not done himself. He remembered how they’d talked in the kitchen afterwards; how he’d made a promise to Len. _You won’t be alone, from now on. Ever again._ Those were the words he had spoken then, in an attempt to apologize for taking his anger and his frustration out on Len. Wasn’t he doing the same now, raging against the man trapped in his circumstances just like Barry was?

 

Or was he simply making excuses, as he had been since the very beginning? Maybe he was idealizing Len as a helpless victim of Cold’s schemes because he needed a sympathetic soul, he needed to see that he wasn’t the only one carrying this burden, tied down and lonely and without much hope to guide him through the darkest moments. Len was capable of his own choices, limited as they were, and Barry could not forget the image of the shadowy room above the apothecary and the scared old man, the cold, calculating violence in Len’s eyes. Maybe Len had more power over his decisions than Barry gave him credit for – and they were not all decisions that Barry could find himself approving of any time soon. He did not _want_ to approve of them: he built his life on the ideal of helping others, and he could not stray from that, he could not lose himself in excusing wrongness for the sake of… what? His feelings? Barry almost wanted to laugh at himself. Maybe, once again, he let himself get lost in what his heart wanted, ridiculous and unrealistic as it was. Maybe he wanted too much to have someone here with him, someone he could lean on, someone he could help, or even save. He’d wanted both of them to be free, _together_ , and he’d slowly, unwittingly, came to believe that it was possible to hope. And then, last night turned his small world upside down. Len’s panic, his violence and his words, it all came crashing down on Barry once again and he knew, with painful certainty, that even if he managed to trust Len again… there was Lisa to think about.

 

Lisa, who was undoubtedly an important part of who Len was. Lisa, for whom he would do anything – and could Barry really begrudge him that devotion? Would he not do the same, were Iris ever in danger: would he not learn how to be cold, how to shut off his heart and his morals for the sake of saving the woman he loved? It hurt to think about it that way – Barry could almost hear his shy, budding feelings for Len getting in the way of his reasoning once more.

 

He simply didn’t know what to believe anymore. The rose stalk kept dripping down his fingers and when his touch burned it through, he saw the flower fall to the ground and shatter. He felt like he was watching himself from a great distance, detached and impassive, with no control over anything. When the door creaked behind him, he imagined, for a moment, that it was Cold coming out of the house, Cold who would punish Barry for destroying a piece of his precious garden, the way he had punished his father. Would he demand that Barry stay forever now? Would he be killed on the spot, or would someone he loved pay the price?

 

But he recognized the rhythm of the steps drawing close, and he wondered when was it exactly that he became so attuned to Len’s presence.

 

He still did not know how to face the man, how to reconcile the warring feelings of betrayal and longing, trust and fear, in his heart.

 

“It’s a graveyard.”

 

Len’s voice was quiet, but it still rang through the eerily silent garden, making Barry’s hand still in mid-air even as he was reaching for another rose.

 

“What?”

 

Barry turned to him in surprise, but Len wasn’t looking at him – instead, his eyes trailed through the garden as if he were looking for something long lost, something that ought to have been there and wasn’t anymore.

 

“This garden,” he clarified, “it’s a burial ground. More than seventy people – all house staff.”

 

An involuntary shiver wrecked through Barry at the thought, and he pulled his hand back, all of a sudden feeling like he was desecrating a grave instead of taking his petty, helpless vengeance at a warlock. “How did they…”

 

Len almost winced at the question, but he braved an answer anyway, short as it was. “Cold.”

 

What else was the warlock capable of? But Barry did not even know why he was surprised: Cold’s reputation preceded him everywhere. But there was a difference between thinking of someone as a killer and being told horrifying, precise numbers.

  
“Why are you telling me this?” Why now, Barry wanted to ask – there were things that hung between them, but the garden was never one of those. He felt anger lap at the edges of his mind again, demanding to know why Len was bringing up something so awful, yet inconsequential to their situation. It was not stories of Cold that Barry wanted from Len, after all.

 

“You wanted honesty from me,” Len shrugged. “And there are secrets that I cannot reveal. But what I can, I will, for what it’s worth.”

 

Barry was torn between laughing at the ridiculousness of that claim and taking it as a peace offering. He wanted it to be the latter, he wanted the hope that Len wanted to tell him as much as he could – the story about Cold killing all those people put things in a different perspective as far as Len’s choices went, at the very least. He likely did not think about himself only: there was Lisa, helpless and vulnerable in her state, and Barry still was not certain about her role in Len’s life.

 

Only one way to find out… Barry felt strange, taking advantage of the promise of honesty Len only made a second ago, but if there was a moment to press for answers, this was it.

 

“Tell me about Lisa,” he challenged, and he half-expected Len’s expression to darken and shutter. Instead, Len regarded him calmly, quietly, and then something broke in him, shoulders sagging just a little as he took a deep breath.

  
“What would you like to know?”

 

“Her curse.”

 

That was not his first thought – he had to force himself not to blurt out the real question, the one about her position in Len’s life. But asking about something he already knew from Sam would give him an opportunity to gauge Len’s sincerity. Would Len tell him the truth, or would he only pretend to be honest while weaving more lies? Barry knew it was not a perfect way to tell whether he could trust Len or not: in fact, he was certain that even if he decided to give the man another chance to explain himself, to reveal more of his secrets, a certain degree of mistrust would lace their every interaction for a good long while. But there was nothing else he could ask about that would give him at least this level of insight, so he held his ground and watched Len struggle with the answer.

 

And it was an obvious battle within the man’s mind, maybe his heart: he frowned and looked away briefly, but then he seemed to reach a decision abruptly, and he met Barry’s eyes with steely determination.

  
“Her soul has been scattered. She will not wake before the pieces are returned… and I swore I would do everything in my power to make it happen.”

 

“Did Cold do it?”

 

“No. There was another warlock. Cold… he chased the other one away. Or killed him, I don’t know.”

 

There was something haunted about Len’s expression that made Barry step forward – he halted himself from coming any closer, but the urge to reach out and touch Len, to soothe and reassure, was strong. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it felt like Len was holding back, not saying the things that weighed on his mind the most.

 

“Tell me,” Barry demanded, quietly, and this time, there was no mistaking Len’s flinch, as if someone struck him across the face. He tried to school his features into a neutral mask almost immediately, but it seemed there was too much to hide. Barry wanted to scream at him, to shout out his frustration about not being trusted, again, but he tightened his jaw and held on for any reply Len might provide.

 

And he did, after a long, painful moment of silence.

  
“The other warlock… his name was Eobard.”

 

The name seemed to carve a gash through Len’s heart just by speaking it, but Barry did not dare interrupt the words that fought their way out with so much difficulty. It was like Len was choking on his answer, but he still waded through the obvious hurt, and Barry could not help but appreciate the effort.

  
“He… it seemed he was a good man, at first.”

  
Barry held back the snort that threatened to escape him: he did not know how anyone could believe that a warlock could be good, but then, he thought about Sam, who didn’t seem particularly evil, or at least could mask it well. Barry wondered about Len’s true age again: from the documents at the university, it was clear that warlocks used to be a much rarer occurrence in the past, and if it all happened long ago, maybe Len had not known to beware of a warlock yet.

 

“I was young, and lonely, and I thought he would help,” Len continued, averting his eyes. “And I… he… I was…”

 

He seemed at a loss for words, as if anything he wanted to say got lodged in his throat and refused to come out. Barry took a step forward, and Len’s eyes shot up to him, startled and ashamed and a little frantic, just as they had been last night, when Lisa had been in danger. Barry’s heart skipped a beat – what was it that brought so much guilt to a man who ordinarily seemed so confident? A flicker of hope ignited in Barry’s heart, immediately stomped down by shame: how could he feel hope because of someone else’s anguish? But the way Len’s eyes kept searching for something in Barry’s face, like he was drowning in his own old, suffocating secrets and needed a helping hand…

 

“Did you… care for him?” Barry asked, quietly, half-expecting to spook Len into silence. The mixture of shame-fear-guilt was back, and Len looked ready to bolt – but in the last second, when Barry thought he would turn and walk away without answering, Len took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and tightened his brow into a fierce scowl, false bravery holding him together.

  
“I loved him. And I was foolish enough to believe that he loved me too.”

 

The words seemed to steal the breath out of Len’s lungs – he gasped and swallowed and Barry couldn’t hold back any longer. He bridged the distance between them with a single touch, raising his hand to curl his fingers around Len's shoulder in a show of support and understanding. Len took a deep, ragged breath, like a drowning man breaking the surface of the dark, murky water that threatened to swallow him whole.

 

And all the while, Barry felt like the lowest of the low, heart racing at the idea that maybe he had not been deluded to believe that Len could feel about him in that way, not only as a lonely soul might come to care about his only companion, but as a man might care for another.

 

“What about Lisa?” he asked quietly, words given life by the ache in his chest. Was Len engaged to Lisa when he fell for the warlock? Was that a part of his shame, that he had betrayed the woman he cared for…?

 

“He wanted to get to me,” Len croaked, throat bobbing as he swallowed. “So he used my sister to do it.”

 

Sister. _Sister_. The word echoed in Barry’s mind with painful persistency, tuning out everything else but the truth that resonated within him the most, letting that shameful hope soar where the other revelations of today had only brought dusty, old aches to the forefront. He squeezed Len’s bicep and let his hand drift down, until he could cradle Len’s knuckles, terrified that he overstepped- but Len’s fingers tightened around Barry’s, holding on for dear life.

 

It was a battle easily lost, trying not to smile; Len met his eyes, shame and fear overshadowed by the new surge of determination, like he refused to back away from his own truths any longer. He looked at Barry and it felt like an avalanche – in that moment, Barry knew with unshakable certainty that Len cared for him, probably more than he would ever be able to put into words. It was right there in the way he studied Barry’s face like the most precious treasure, like he could not imagine anything more valuable than the man before him.

 

It was a terrible thing, to love a man so, and yet not trust him completely – but Barry couldn’t hold back any longer. Len was still afraid of his own words, of speaking what was in his heart, and so Barry would not burden him with his own. And yet, there was something in the way Len’s gaze dropped to Barry’s lips that went through Barry like a surge of power, hooked into his core and pulled him close. He swayed forward, every inch towards Len feeling like a mile – Len’s eyes, so blue and so wide, betrayed his uncertainty, but he did not back away. His grip on Barry’s hand tightened almost impossibly, but the near-pain of it couldn’t stop Barry completely. It slowed him down, just enough to hear Len’s words, feel them breathed against his own lips.

 

“I’ve never-“

 

There were a thousand questions to be asked, in another moment, in a different place, but only one that could be whispered back into the narrow shared space between them, crackling with the force that was drawing them together.

  
“Do you want to?”

 

Everything, _everything_ hinged on the slow, shaky breath Len took in, piecing his answer together in the span of a few hurried heartbeats. Even so, it was not a word – it was a look, scared and uncertain and longing, it was the tiniest motion, half an inch forward, it was the way his tongue darted out to graze his bottom lip. It was all Barry needed, and all he wanted; it was slow, and Barry was sixteen again, standing behind a shed with a farmer’s daughter, excited and horrified and sweating everywhere.

 

Except this time, it mattered if he did something wrong: this time, he wanted to get it right, not for the sake of his own fragile self-respect, but for Len, for the man who looked forty and was maybe a hundred without ever having been kissed or properly, absolutely loved.

 

“I promised you wouldn’t ever be alone again,” he whispered, words carrying only a breath’s length away, but that was alright, because Len was close enough to hear it, close enough for Barry to feel him tense momentarily, for Barry to see every glimmer of hope and confusion and care in those blue eyes.

 

It felt like voicing that promise once again, sealing it for all eternity when their lips met, so tentative and light at first that Barry could not be certain if the warmth was a touch or just a brush of their shared breaths ghosting over their lips. Len shivered and Barry’s heart broke, just a little, but was renewed instantly by the surge of joy that filled his lungs instead of air. The slow, lingering kiss was followed by another, almost as if time stopped every time their lips melded together. Barry’s skin tingled, reawakened to the possibility of touch, but even dazed, he was painfully aware of Len’s limits. He could not push for more, no matter how much he wanted to – so he pressed one more kiss, slow and sweet and almost innocent in its simplicity, to Len’s mouth. Then, he withdrew, just an inch or two, unwilling to pull back further than he needed; he opened his eyes just in time to see Len’s lids flutter and reveal the familiar blue eyes, glowing like something inside Len was ignited and lent him light that had not been there before.

 

_Don’t lie to me ever again_ , Barry wanted to say, but he did not wish to break the moment, so he simply smiled at Len, lazy and slow, reflecting all the good things that bubbled up in his heart whenever he looked at the man, and when he saw those feelings mirrored in Len’s eyes, when he felt Len’s hand tight around his, he could not help but hope that one day, he could learn to fully trust Len again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm taking so long with this fic, but it's my baby and for those of you who might be wondering, I have all the intentions of finishing this. I have rough plans for the whole fic - we're about halfway through, I think - so I won't abandon the story!
> 
> That said, I really apologize for taking so long, but real life has been kind of difficult lately. I know I promised an update for New Years as a gift, but... well, I'm still early for Chinese New Year :'D [/lamejoking]
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the new chapter, and a great 'thank you' goes to airydoorway and mockingbird-22 on tumblr for beta work, as well as to Yukio for helping with the first draft that made a lot less sense :D

The ceiling was still familiar to Len, even after all these years. He had spent many a night as a child, then as a young man, gazing into the shadows and trying to find answers in these very ornaments, in the curves and planes of the intricate design. He never found much, despite all his efforts – never truly understood why he had been kept a prisoner in his family home, caged like a dangerous animal.

How ironic that he should understand it now, lying on the same bed that had once been too large for a growing boy, surrounded by the same shadows, the same fragments of ice crackling over the mattress when he moved. Len had never felt dangerous then: how could he, when his father had been such a striking figure, always in his armor, imposing in mind and body, larger than anything Len had known? How could he, a mere boy in comparison, be a threat? He had not wanted to hurt Lisa, and so he never truly fought his father’s decision to keep him away from her, from everyone… but he never truly agreed, either.

Now, staring at the ceiling and feeling his powers surge through his body, Len tried to swallow the tightness in his throat. It was a chore much more difficult than getting his powers under control. He had done it before and he could do it again, he was sure of it; this was not the first time he had lost his powers and then recovered them when he’d healed. But thinking of Barry, sweet, gentle Barry who promised to stay, who cared enough about a broken man to ask what Len wanted… thinking of hurting this kind boy made Len’s stomach tighten in revulsion. Fear had never been his friend. There were men who claimed that fear helped on a battlefield, that fear kept them alive and kicking. For Len, fear had only ever caused grief, and so he had kept it at arm’s length, closed himself off from feeling too much so that he could maintain the hard-won iron grip on his powers.

But now, the fear of hurting Barry coiled around his heart and made his control slip. Len took a deep breath: it was always a little more difficult to keep his ice reined in after it had just come back, he knew this, and despite the memories brought on by this room, he was no longer the boy who grew up within these four walls. He was in charge of himself, of his ice and of his heart, and he would keep it that way.

He swung his feet off the bed, keeping his breathing as even as he could. This was not the time to doze – if Barry came looking for him and discovered Len lying among the shards of ice, he would not forgive another lie, and Len refused to let that happen. He might fear hurting Barry, but he feared losing him just as much. It was a difficult thing to admit even to himself, the truth of it aching in his chest, but he could no longer deny it, not after the previous day.

Len still could not believe it, any of it. Lisa, his clever sister, had known all this time about his shameful inclinations, and yet she had not shunned him. She let him try to cope on his own, and when she finally said something, after all these years, her words were full of acceptance. She was hurting because he had been hurt, not because she would be ashamed of him, and Len never fully understood how much it had weighed on him, the thought that his heart’s desires would make Lisa feel shame or disgust. But with the burden lifted off his shoulders, he felt impossibly light, as if her simple acceptance had unlocked one of the many restraints he kept on the darkest, vilest secrets of his soul.

What was more, Len had not been wrong when he’d dared to hope, secretly, silently, that Barry might feel similarly. Even now, Len could still feel the ghost of the boy’s touch, long fingers holding on to Len’s shoulder, curling around his hand, steadying him so that he could speak the things he’d never dared to even think too loudly before.

_Before_. It felt like all of Len’s life consisted of befores and afters: before his powers, after his father’s death, before Eobard… and now, before and after Barry, two worlds that seemed to differ in one detail only, but which were so fundamentally different that Len felt like he was rebuilding his very roots bit by bit. He was growing from and around Barry, intertwining his life with the boy’s, regardless of how much he struggled against it. It felt like he had been split into two men. One of them feared hurting Barry, saw the wisdom in keeping himself chained and locked away, keeping his control and little else. The other… well, the other raised his hand and touched his lips, chasing the ghost of a kiss he still remembered all too vividly and yet longed for more.

After Barry, there was no control. Yet there had to be, otherwise he would end up hurting the boy. He had to find balance where he saw none, and he had to do it now, before Barry came looking for him and revealed the truth that would tear them apart.

Len took another deep breath and pushed himself out of the bed. It was high time he walked out of this room, once and for all, and left all the fears and doubts lurking in the corners. For the first time in forever, he knew what he wanted, even though he was not yet clear on how to keep it. And he would put up a good fight before Barry was yanked out of his reach.

He crept down the stairs, feeling ridiculous even as he deliberately kept his steps light. It did not make sense to fear a human boy in Len’s own home, but something had changed the day before and pulled the ground from under Len’s feet. After what happened in the garden, he had spent the rest of the day at Lisa’s bedside, making sure no seizures would endanger her, and, if he were honest with himself, taking the quiet time to regroup his scattered thoughts. Barry had not pressed for more – the almost chaste kisses they shared in the garden were the only proof of that world-altering change that gripped Len’s heart and refused to let go. The boy had come to check on Lisa once or twice, and he brought tea and a kind, shy smile with him, as if worried that Len would have changed his mind about the whole thing, that Len would retreat behind his wall of lies. If only the boy knew how much of that wall still stood firm, if a little crumbled around the edges…

Len shook his head and brought himself out of his reverie. He needed a clear head if he were to weather this storm and keep that which he desired. He could hear the clattering of pots and pans, the shuffle of feet on the kitchen floor, an unmistakable sign that Barry was already up and about. Len would show neither his doubt nor his fear to the boy. After a moment to collect himself, he descended the last couple of steps and entered the kitchen; it was no hardship to let a smile touch his lips when Barry turned to him with bright eyes full of… anticipation? Fear? Was it possible that Barry, the brave boy who had walked into the warlock’s den to save his family, could feel similar fear to the one lurking in Len’s heart? The thought, oddly, inspired determination that overshadowed everything else. Was this what the books meant when they claimed love was strength? Len felt his stomach flip as the word ‘love’ entered his mind. It seemed that once he got brave enough to think it and speak it, he could not avoid the truth of it any longer. What he felt for Barry defied expectation, sensibility, or propriety, and he was done cowering from it.

“Good morning,” he said, feeling the tenderness in his own words. Barry’s gaze warmed, and for a moment, Len’s heart lurched with a mixture of anticipation and panic at the thought that the boy would come to him and demand such shows of affection as Len had witnessed among young lovers in the cities. Len might be determined to keep Barry with him, for as long as possible, but he did not know if he was ready for such ease in displaying intimacy, even without anyone else to witness the act.

But the young man must have felt Len’s apprehension, because he did not approach. Maybe he recalled Len’s shamed declarations of inexperience from the previous day; he motioned to the table, and only then did Len tear his gaze away from the boy long enough to see that Barry had prepared a simple breakfast, cold meat and cheese, grapes, and bread.

Len had attended many a feast in his time, albeit reluctantly, but none of the dishes served on silver platters could have measured up to this simple spread. He gave Barry a small smile and sat at the table, waiting for the other man to finish cutting up the vegetables and pour them into a large pot where the beginnings of stew were bubbling already.

“I see you woke early,” he remarked, half-teasing, and Barry’s brilliant smile was a reward he would never tire of. The boy sat next to him, knees bumping just a little under the table, and Len had to drop his hand to his side, where Barry could not see the frost coating his nails. His lack of control brought him back to reality, and the easy warm haze of the morning receded in his mind to give way to pragmatism. However he felt, he could not allow his control to slip. Len’s thoughts strayed to his father’s dismissive sneer – he would not prove the long-dead man right. He _would_ remain in control, whatever it took.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Barry admitted, but before the hint of worry could take hold in Len’s mind, a slow smile curled up the corners of Barry’s mouth and he shook his head, tousled brown hair falling into his eyes. “I… kept thinking about you. About what you said.”

“I said many things,” Len replied, not bothering to mask that he was playing for time. He reached for a piece of bread when he felt his hands were entirely his own again, and let Barry explain himself.

The boy let him chew for a moment, probably seeing through Len’s stalling tactics, then continued, the half-smile giving way to a seriousness that momentarily brought worry to Len’s mind.

“You said you would tell me what you could.”

“That, I did,” Len nodded – he could not deny what he had promised. “Is there something you wish to know?”

A quick laugh escaped Barry’s lips: “Oh, _so_ many things. First of all, how much do you remember from your past? Truly. Who were you? What happened?”

Len’s mouth twisted in a wry smile – if only the boy knew how much Len was _not_ who he had once been, he would not demand these answers because he would know they did not matter. But he needed to know first to understand, and so Len was caught in a dilemma of how much to reveal, how much to shape and mold the truth into something acceptable. His lies so far had been construed around the wish to conceal his identity as a warlock, as _the_ warlock who brought Barry here in the first place, even if by accident. And he had to keep that in mind, make sure that he revealed nothing that could point this clever boy in the right direction as to Len’s true self. But a part of Len was also loathe to admit his human origins – Barry was a doctor’s son, and Len enjoyed the illusion of equal status while Barry thought him a servant. Was it selfish of him, to keep a secret he could easily reveal? He had promised he would answer what he could, after all.

In the end, Len decided that revealing his noble blood would mean revealing his true age, and that would be hard to explain without compromising his perceived humanity. He smiled, then, and met Barry’s gaze just briefly.

“Not much to be said about my past. I have a sister. The rest of my family is dead – illness or battle.”

“Were you always a servant?” Barry pressed on, and Len could see in his eyes that he would not believe it if the answer was ‘yes’.

“Not always,” he said slowly, trying to piece together the fragments of his childhood and youth to a picture Barry would accept. “I was preparing to enter service as a knight when Cold arrived.”

Technically, that was true: a Knight Superior was still a knight, in the end, and his training _had_ been marred by the emergence of his powers. Barry’s eyes widened a little, but he seemed accepting of the explanation.

“I did think you were a little too good in chess strategy for a stable boy,” he chuckled, and Len smiled back, even though the words twisted in his gut as he thought about the strategy he was employing just now, kneading the truth into acceptable shapes so that Barry would stay.

“I could have merely had years to practice,” he pointed out, and Barry’s smile fell a little, eyes serious again.

“How long have you been here? How old are you?” he asked quietly, and Len swallowed, biting into another grape to give himself time to think. For once, his mind was not weaving a web of lies, but honestly calculating the answer. If he counted the years he remembered, the years he had spent aware and moving about… no, even then he could not be completely sure. How odd, to have such a gap in one’s life that he could not be certain of his age.

“I’m over thirty,” he said in the end and licked his lips in thought, “not yet forty. Don’t give me that look,” he added when he recognized the souring of Barry’s expression, the tightness around the corners of his mouth.

“How can you not know?” the boy demanded with an exasperated sigh. Len dropped his gaze to his hands, currently resting, human and non-threatening, on the table before him. How, indeed?

“Before you arrived, I only thought of Lisa. I did not care about days or weeks. Time passes oddly when you’re alone,” he spoke quietly and felt more than heard Barry tensing next to him. Long fingers slid over his loosely curled fist and Len had a momentary vision of those lovely fingers blackened by frostbite. He struggled not to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” Barry whispered, squeezing Len’s hand. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

_No, you shouldn’t have_ , a defiant voice in Len’s mind rose, but he silenced it and offered a small smile to the boy.

“I promised to tell you what I could. And this, I could.” Even if it took so much effort, even if it brought up memories and thoughts he would not rather have. “The last time I was certain, I was twenty-two.”

Barry drew a sharp breath, then released it in a quiet chuckle. He didn’t let go of Len’s hand.

“I will be twenty-two in spring,” the boy said, his contagious smile audible in his words so clearly that Len felt himself smiling back, even though he could not yet tear his eyes away from their joined hands. He slowly uncurled his fist and turned it until their fingers intertwined. Barry let their hands slot together, his thumb stroking a lazy path over the edge of Len’s palm. Something enormous reared in Len’s chest, like a startled stallion ready to bolt. Barry was the same age he had been once, back when he thought Eobard could love him, without deceit and selfishness. Was he doing to Barry what had been done to him, letting the young man trust in Len’s heart when it was blackened by dishonesty and violence, when he had things he needed to do and he would potentially end up hurting Barry over them? It was not power he sought, not like Eobard had, but he had to save his sister and he could not compromise on that.

The tell-tale prickle of ice under his skin almost made him pull his hand out of Barry’s grip, but he was unable to move. He could not contain his ice – but he could redirect it, think back to the lessons he’d learned with Mick. Len felt ice envelop his toes, burn momentarily against his skin as the frost rose up to his ankles, under his boots. His hand, in Barry’s grip, remained human.

He knew it was only a temporary solution – how long before the ice crept up to his knees, before Barry bumped his own leg against the frosty edges instead of a human limb? He pulled his hand out of Barry’s hold at that thought, and the brief flash of hurt in Barry’s eyes was nearly enough to make him reach for the boy again. _Control,_ he reminded himself; before he had it back, Barry was not safe near him, not when Len’s mind was a mess of roiling, conflicting emotions whenever he as much as looked at the boy.

“I will be going out today, running errands,” he announced, even though it had not been his plan. He needed to get out, regroup where he was in no danger of losing control, before he would allow himself to come back to Barry. “If there is anything you need from the market, I will bring it to you,” Len added, hoping to soothe the hurt in Barry’s eyes even though he knew there was no fruit nor pastry that would cure this.

“I wish I could go with you,” Barry sighed, but before Len could figure out how to deny the request – where he was going, the boy did not belong – Barry held up a hand and offered a smile that was only a little bitter. “No, I know, I know. I wouldn’t risk so much for just a stroll. Go. Maybe we can play a game or two after you come back?”

He sounded so hopeful, so innocent, that the urge to tell him everything and beg for forgiveness nearly overpowered Len. He swallowed all the words that struggled to break free from his mouth and gave Barry a tight nod instead.

“Yes. Prepare for bitter defeat.”

The sound of Barry’s chuckles carried after him even as Len walked away, and he knew that out of the two of them, he would end up the defeated one.

…

The darkness of the cave, filled with the scent of burning, made something in Len’s chest uncoil when he stepped out of the mirror. The lingering smoke stung in his nose as he weaved through the maze-like corridors, but he felt more at ease with every step, like he did not have to fear the anxiety bubbling under the surface. He would not hurt Mick if he unleashed his powers by accident – not unless he truly meant it, anyway. Here, he could let go, and then take a deep breath and remember what it felt like to be in control.

A detour just off the main cave of Mick’s home brought him to another large cavern, stones jutting out like dragon teeth out of the ground, hanging off the ceiling and dripping water everywhere. Len remembered how odd it had seemed the first time he’d discovered this place – the caves were dry and suffocating further up, courtesy of Mick’s fires. But this place was just what Len needed right now, with its oppressive humidity and darkness interspersed with rays of light from the holes in the high ceiling.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, spreading his arms just a little as he let go of the power surge that had been roiling inside ever since that morning, growing with every fearful thought of hurting Barry. The air swirled in frosty swipes around him and ice erupted from his hands, coating Len’s skin and spreading over the ground. The cave was soon covered in icicles, everything seemingly brighter as it turned white – only then did he exhale, nearly smiling at the thought that his breath should have been visible but wasn’t. He no longer felt cold; gone were the occasional shivers of his miserably human body. He was one with the ice again, and he had not realized how much he’d missed his powers until he heard the crackle of frost when he flexed his fingers, felt the fresh scent of cold all around him.

“Good to see you’re back,” Mick’s voice startled him, but Len did not let it show that he hadn’t noticed the other warlock’s presence. He turned, a satisfied smirk still on his face, and nodded at his friend, who was wearing his usual scowl.

“It is,” he agreed, but Mick did not smirk back – something weighed on his mind, and that was never good. Instead, he growled at Len, eyes burning even though his real fire was nowhere to be seen. Yet.

“Took you long fucking enough. I hope the kid was at least worth it.”

“Watch your mouth,” Len snapped back. He did not like the tone, and he did not like the underlying meaning of those accusations: even though he could not deny that something had transpired between Barry and him, he would not let anyone speak of it. He would not let himself be seen as _less_ for it, not even by Mick, who was allowed far more liberties around Len than anyone else.

“Or what?” Mick challenged, and his fingers curled into loose fists at his sides; flames suddenly coiled around his arms and Len took a step back, his body bracing for a fight without a second thought.

Was this how it ended, the one friendship he could rely on, these past years? Was this _why_ it ended, because he unleashed something that had always felt more terrifying than his powers? The old fears seized him, though he was too well trained to show it; but the voice in his head, resembling his father’s, whispered about what people would say, what they would think if they knew. Had it been silly of him, to never stop and think about Mick as one of the people who might judge?

Seconds ticked by, the crackling of Len’s ice and the hum of Mick’s fire filling the air between them. Neither moved, for a while; Len refused to attack first, but he would protect himself, and they were both aware of how things would play out if he did.

“You know the rules, Mick,” Len sneered, teasing instead of challenging, but the brittle humor could not provide cover for the implied threat. “If you want out, you’re out.”

Fire roared up past Mick’s shoulders, casting his fierce scowl in terrifying shadows. _This is it_ , Len thought – he did not let warlocks walk away with the knowledge of his sister, and none knew more than Mick.

But then, Mick’s flames flickered out as suddenly as they had started and the man snorted, shaking his head.

“I ain’t the one thinking of the back door.”

For a second, Len thought that it was another crude reminder of his unnatural inclinations and his stomach flipped – but there was no meanness in Mick’s words, no sneer that would suggest his words had been meant to do harm. Len saw that the other warlock had not wavered in his loyalty, despite his obvious annoyance, and he felt a pang of guilt at the thought that he had doubted Mick.

“What do you mean?” he asked, letting the ice from his hands clink to the ground, as much of an apology as either of them would accept from the other.

Mick rubbed a hand over his head, smearing soot over his scalp. “Our esteemed Weather Wizard’s been restless. Raiding country estates, raising hell at the borders. He’s still too chicken-shit to come to the city, but you should deal with him, soon.”

Len frowned: he had expected some sort of trouble from that man, he just had not thought it would start so early. It had barely been half a year since Mark joined their group, and he had always seemed a little too jittery for Len’s liking, but he had thought it would pass.

“Is he acting alone?” Len asked, unable to keep annoyance out of his tone.

“Mostly it’s Shawna trailing after him, you know how she gets. Thinks he’s gonna give her the time of the day when he’s done with whatever he’s got going on.”

Len sighed. Shawna’s need for company was obvious ever since he first met her, and after the past weeks Len had spent with Barry, he could not begrudge her the wish to share her life with another person. He knew that longing all too well, the hollow places in his chest that he only became aware of when Barry barged into his life and showed him how lonely he had truly been. Warlocks had a hard time finding companionship with anyone but each other, and with the looks Shawna had been giving Mark, it was no secret that she thought the two of them inseparable. Len knew nothing of their past, but he hoped, for her sake, that she was not wrong. However, his sympathy ended where trouble began, and looting estates with their hot-headed approach could backfire on all of them, especially Lisa.

It was his fault, really. Even if he had been without his powers, he should have made sure to keep an eye on the other warlocks. He had grown complacent, and despite his mistrust of Sam, he had relied on the mirror warlock to provide information in case of an emergency. Apparently, he had been wrong to trust that Sam could keep an eye on everyone – maybe the ‘Mirror Master’ knew nothing of Mark’s rebellion, or maybe he simply did not care, unable to see how much of a threat it could be to Lisa. Len’s circle had expanded too much too quickly, and control over them was slipping from his fingers. He could not let that happen, lest Lisa be in danger because of him. Again. He would not allow that, not on his grave.

Mick inclined his head towards the corridors, away from the ice, and broke through Len’s thoughts.

“Let’s get out of here. I can’t stand this damn draft. I thought I told you last time to keep your fucking ice out of my place.”

Len smirked as he followed the grumbling man back to the warmer parts of the caves. In the small space Mick called home, Len leaned against the charred marble table and ignored the small pile of burned rat corpses in the corner. A warlock had to entertain himself somehow, apparently – and it was in everyone’s interest that Mick had something to burn on regular basis.

“You should move,” he remarked casually, knowing full well he would get only a glare for his trouble.

“I ain’t going anywhere,” Mick grunted, “I got everything I need right here.“

Len let it slide: they’d had the same argument before, and it never led anywhere. But something about the idea of Mick being trapped in the tight space of the cave did not sit well with Len, even though he could not place the source of his sudden anxiety. Perhaps he was merely looking for a problem he could solve, unlike the situation with Barry where he felt like he was stumbling blind through the darkness, not knowing when he would fall.

“That why you’re here?” Mick snorted, and his tone made it clear that he knew the answer.

Len shook his head. “No. I don’t have full control yet. My powers only came back this morning.”

He brought his hand up to his face, studying the way light caught in the facets of his icy fingers. He did not need to say more: Mick knew how he got after he’d lost his powers. In all the years they worked together, Len never again lost control the way he had that one time… but the mere possibility sent chills down his spine that had nothing to do with his magic. He had killed so many people that day, out of fear, out of rage, and out of love: the same feelings that coursed through him now. He could not let his control slip again. Lisa, ironically protected by the very curse that kept her asleep, had survived – Barry, human as he was, would not.

“So what,” Mick smirked, “you need me to hold your hand, Cold?”

The name sounded like a joke coming from Mick, who might not have known Len when he had only been a scared boy without any magic, but who knew enough anyway. He’d seen Len’s garden when it was nothing but a field, and then helped turn it into a graveyard - he’d heard enough and guessed the rest. It felt odd to keep secrets from Mick, to even try: Len thought back to the acceptance in Lisa’s eyes and wondered if Mick, a man firmly rooted in this age instead of the long-gone years of Len’s youth, would feel the same.

“Control has not been an issue before,” Len spoke slowly. Mick’s grimace told him he had not chosen the right words to convey his meaning.

“With you, control’s _always_ been a fucking issue,” Mick shook his head and reached for a charred rat. He swore they tasted like chicken – Len never had the stomach to try.

Len had to swallow around the tightness in his throat as he tried to put his fears into words. “But I couldn’t hurt anyone at the manor then.”

“Ah,” Mick nodded. For a moment, the only sound breaking the silence was the squelch of human teeth on tough rat meat. Len averted his eyes, suppressing the mild disgust coiling in his stomach: he had told Mick numerous times that he should take advantage of Sam’s mirrors, get food from some small town far away from here, but Mick had never been particularly picky, and Len knew how to choose his battles.

Mick wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, messy and careless. “I take it things are going well with your boy?”

Len remembered his previous visit to Mick’s place; he had protested against Barry being called ‘his’ then. But Len’s world had shifted in just a few days, so completely that it did not even feel possible to deny it now, even though a part of Len, the fearful part that cowered from his father’s voice in his head, still wanted to try.

“Yeah,” he sighed instead, almost soundlessly, but Mick must have heard, because he nodded. Len’s mind whirred with the things he wanted to say, things that kept bubbling up no matter how he tried to keep them hidden. He wanted to tell Mick he did not know what to do, how to protect Barry; he wanted to ask how one made sense of the fear and the longing pulling him in opposite directions. But they’d never been that kind of friends, the kind that spoke thoughts out loud, more than absolutely necessary.

And so Mick did not offer acceptance in the same way Lisa had, but Len could see it in his eyes, nonetheless.

It took a while and a few deep breaths to make peace with it, and with himself. When Len spoke again, his focus back on the problem at hand, he felt like years had been lifted off his shoulders, years of worrying and hiding. He needed to keep his head in the game now, instead of allowing his heart to take over. He looked at Mick again, determination sharpening his words like a fine blade.

“When did you learn about the looting?”

No matter how it felt, it had only been a few days earlier that he visited Mick, and the other warlock did not speak of any trouble with the others.

Mick’s face clouded with barely-contained anger, but Len could see the faraway look in his eyes that let him know Mick’s rage was not directed at him. “Yesterday. Asshole tried to recruit Axel for some stupid raid on border patrol supply trails, so we had a good long talk about it.”

Len couldn’t help the smirk that curved up the corners of his mouth as he thought about the kind of ‘talk’ Mick most likely provided. For a moment, he wanted to chide Mick for being too rash in his violence – it was likely that Mark would be wary now. It had never been a secret that Mick was loyal to Len, and it would not take a great strategic mind to realize that the news of any confrontation would reach Len quickly.

And then, Len’s mind inadvertently jumped to thoughts of Barry, and what Len would have done if someone had threatened the boy’s safety.

Suddenly, Mick’s acceptance, as well as his rage, made so much more sense.

“How’s Axel?” Len asked, not only because the severity of harm that had been done to the young warlock would likely influence how Mick would react the next time he laid eyes on Mark. No; Len was asking as a friend as well, repaying the concern Mick had shown for Barry before.

“Fine,” Mick grunted, and a part of the pressure in Len’s chest eased. He liked the unpredictable young warlock well enough and he did not want the kid to come to harm, but for Mick’s sake, Len was doubly glad.

“Bit pissed off,” Mick added with a good-natured chuckle that told Len it was nothing serious. “Told me he coulda damn well done it. You know how it is, at that age. He needs to prove shit, to everyone. But he’s safe, for now.”

His last words rang ominously between them, and Len could only agree. It wasn’t only Axel’s life at stake – it sure was what mattered to Mick the most, but Len had been taught to see a bigger picture, to think of lives other than those of his immediate family, his most loved ones. He’d thought he’d long forgotten those lessons, but sometimes, they resurfaced and made him think in terms of borders and politics. He could not do much – but he could prevent a rogue warlock from causing trouble where none was needed.

“A meeting, I think,” Len nodded. “Tomorrow, at dusk. I will deal with this.”

He would not let Mark weaken the country’s defenses by raiding the borders, however easy a target they sometimes made. And he would not allow Mark to screw up through overreaching and getting himself captured: Len might not like the Weather Wizard too much, but he was a valuable asset, and he knew far too much about Len’s life now to be let go so easily. There were others out there, others who would jump at an opportunity to learn of Cold’s weaknesses – and they would not think twice about the means to achieve it.

“See that you do,” Mick snorted; a ball of flame formed in his palm, bouncing lightly over the callused skin. “Or I will.”

Len had no doubt that preventing Mick from doing just that was in everyone’s best interest.

…

Len did not pay much attention to his surroundings as he weaved through the marketplace. The town square was small, hardly built for more than a dozen stalls and for the people who had come from the surrounding villages to buy and sell. Those who were not lucky enough – or wealthy enough – to secure a stall were diverted into the narrow alleyways, with vegetables, jars of honey, and glazed plates spread out on old blankets and rickety carts. The vendors were yelling to draw the attention to their wares, haggling loudly about the prices, and Len nearly winced at the cacophony of voices carrying everywhere.

This was no Central – Len guessed that without the rush of the market day, the town held barely more than three hundred souls. That was one of the reasons why he chose it: the smaller the town, the lesser the chance of someone recognizing him as the warlock Cold. He had never been interested in stealing the last few silver pieces from farmers’ families or small-town clerks, and his reluctance turned into an advantage every time he needed to buy groceries. He could walk among these humans without a trace of worry – even more so now that his powers were back.

It struck him that he never feared for the safety of the humans who milled about in these markets, even when they bumped shoulders and elbows, when they brushed past him or pushed him out of their way. Maybe he had grown callous towards humanity, or perhaps he had never been good at caring about their lives. As he let the crowd steer him through the tiny streets, he realized that he had subconsciously wondered if maybe Barry had changed that about him, if he would fear harming a child who ran, laughing, on unsteady feet and slammed into his knees, if he would worry for the farmer’s daughter who caught his hand to drag him towards their fruit cart. He bought a few fragrant peaches and fat, shiny apples off her, ignoring her flustered protests when he refused to take back the change of a few copper pieces; but that urge to keep a human safe that always reared its head whenever Barry was near remained silent for this girl, as for any other human around him. It would be an inconvenience if he revealed his powers by accident, but he did not fear it the way he had in the morning.

He wondered what Barry would say if he knew of these thoughts, of Len’s disregard for humanity at large. Len liked to think he was not unnecessarily cruel, and he did what he could to prevent warlocks like Mark from bringing harm to the land and its people. But he would not take any great risk to protect any of these humans, and he had a feeling that a boy like Barry, someone who had risked everything to help a stranger in a warlock’s home, would not take it well.

A sudden urge to make it up to Barry struck him: perhaps it was silly of him, to make amends for the slights Barry did not know of. But when he passed a traveling pharmacist’s cart, he could not help but stop and look.

“How much for the book?” he asked, and the old man’s hazy eyes focused on him with surprise. Len imagined that the people here, far removed from Central and its towering university, did not express interest in medical manuscripts very often.

“I-it is not for sale, sir,” the pharmacist stammered, but he changed his mind quickly when Len drew a gold piece out of his pouch.

“Will this do?”

He could almost see the calculations in the old man’s head, but he let him think about it for a moment. He was in no great hurry, after all, and the less commotion he caused, the easier his way back home would be.

_Home_. How odd that word felt when it did not mean an empty house anymore. Len knew he should not dwell on these feelings too much, or he would only set himself up for greater heartbreak when Barry, eventually, inevitably, left. But he could not order his feelings around as easily as he’d once imagined, and so he settled into the comfort the thought of ‘home’ provided at that moment, and decided to cross that rickety, jagged bridge when he came to it.

“It isn’t worth that much, my lord,” the old man finally spoke, and Len smirked wryly: how little it took for a man to gain status in the eyes of the people, from ‘sir’ to a ‘lord’ within one piece of gold. He never regarded wealth as important to the worth of a man, but he was not so arrogant that he would not realize it had to do with the fact that he had never wanted for food or shelter. For a man like the pharmacist, constantly on the road for years, if not decades, only to earn a few silver pieces for fever remedies, that gold piece could mean the line between a warm meal or hunger, a roof above his head or a night spent curled underneath a tree.

Len was struck with the vision of Barry, decades from now, that graceful back hunched under the weight of life, his elegant fingers twisted with the winter chills, scraping by only so that he could cure a beggar’s child with no regard for payment at all. On a sudden whim, he produced another gold piece to go with the first and set both on the old man’s cart.

“Then you’ll be able to replace it easily, isn’t that so?”

The lure of gold was too much for the pharmacist – Len might have only imagined it, but his eyes seemed to shine as he held the book to Len, battered and well-used as it was. Len did not even know if Barry would have any use for it: but it had to be better than whatever the two-hundred-year old library in the manor could provide.

He cradled the cracked leather of the book close to his chest and turned from the pharmacist and his cart.

…

“Woah, these are amazing!” Barry sighed happily. Len’s heart warmed at the sight of the boy so happy about something as simple as a peach. Len had brought home a variety of groceries: fruits, vegetables, grains, and a loaf of freshly baked bread that had smelled so homely Len could not resist. There was cheese and a jar of preserves, a few small pouches of spices... but above all, Barry was happiest about the peaches. Len had a hard time looking away when he watched the boy bite into the juicy flesh of the fruit, leaving his lips glistening and sweet. Maybe he should warn Barry about dripping everywhere, considering he had found him in the library: but it had been Len who brought the plate of assorted fruits and a few slices of fresh cheese on his search for the boy, so he could not complain.

In the long run, he did not much care about the mess, anyway.

“I brought you something else,” he said, trying to divert his own attention as he produced the book, tucked safely under his shirt.

Barry’s eyes went impossibly wide at the sight and he hastily wiped his sticky hands on his red coat – Len noted with amusement that the boy valued books above clothes. Len could not disapprove; silk linings and fashionable cuts never meant much to him, either.

The reverence with which Barry wrapped his hands around the binding was almost humbling. Len was starting to reconsider his opinion of the book as not too valuable, when Barry’s eyes clouded with an indecipherable mess of emotions, and he bit his lip, swallowing hard.

“Is something wrong?” Len frowned: had he picked something Barry disliked? But the stab of worry, ridiculous as it was, passed when Barry turned his watery eyes to him and smiled.

“No. It’s nothing. It’s…” he paused, stroking a finger down the stained leather binding. “It was one of the first books I was asked to read at the university. We argued about some parts for hours, with Cisco… he’s my friend, have I told you about him?”

Len had to clench his teeth for a moment to push down the flare of jealousy in his chest – but he recognized that Barry was only feeling nostalgic for the life he had left, the life he had been robbed of, and Len of all people had no right to feel jealousy when he had been the one to steal it from Barry’s grasp.

“You haven’t,” he said, voice level again, and Barry shot him a small, searching look, as if he was trying to decide whether to tell Len or not. Len must have passed the test, whatever it was, because Barry lowered himself back into one of the overstuffed sofas, eyes firmly on the book in his hands. When he did not speak, Len took it as a cue to join him; their knees bumped lightly when Len took a seat next to Barry, and neither of them felt the need to move away.

“I was seventeen, when I started,” Barry said, smiling a bit. “I always wanted to go, and I learned what I could from my dad, but it was all a mess, I knew a lot about some things and almost nothing of others. Cisco helped me a lot, that first year – he was already in his second year, but we started talking one day in the mess hall, about porridge, of all things, can you believe that?”

He chuckled a little, and it came out sounding a bit shaky. Len let him collect himself, and for a moment, he thought Barry wouldn’t continue – but eventually, the boy ran his thumb around the edge of the book’s binding and spoke again.

“He offered to help me with the things I didn’t know about. He wasn’t studying to be a doctor, though – so he didn’t know everything either. That was how he introduced me to Caitlin, they’ve been friends forever, she was almost at the end of her studies then. She graduated a few months later, but she was recruited to the Duke’s research group, so she stayed at the university. They were… _are_ my best friends there.”

The way Barry’s voice snagged on that little correction, how he stubbornly refused to acknowledge that the people he cared about so deeply were only a memory now, made Len’s heart twist in his chest. He reached across the already narrow space between them and touched Barry’s hand, still resting against the book’s cover. Barry’s eyes snapped up to meet his, and Len did not dare look away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, even though Barry could not know it was not a mere show of sympathy, but an actual apology. Len wondered, not for the first time, whether he should let Barry go: the boy’s eyes could brighten for a peach or for a book, and Len could protect him for the rest of his life… but Barry’s calling, his life, had been in learning, in helping, and Len could not provide that here, locked away from the world.

But the selfish part of him won over any magnanimous thought of releasing the boy. Len had promised himself he would hold on to Barry, and he could not release that hold so easily now.

“Thank you,” Barry whispered, and blinked away the moisture from his eyes before attempting another smile. “It means a lot to me, that you brought me this.”

His fingers twitched under Len’s hand, as if he was trying to stroke the book lovingly once more. Len did not try to hold back the words that bubbled up on a whim.

“Tell me what you need, and I can get you more. When I go out for groceries. I will buy you all the books I can find.”

He knew that it could not replace the university, the friends, the practical experience of learning from the best in the field, but he could not help the urge to try.

The smile on Barry’s lips did not falter, but his eyes were sad, so _sad_ , that Len’s heart nearly broke right there.

“Thanks,” Barry repeated and set the book on the nearby table, clasping Len’s hand tightly between his. He did not say it wasn’t enough, but Len could read it in the tremble of his hand, however Barry tried to mask it. Through all his fear that he would hurt Barry, was he hurting him simply by keeping him here? He was selfish enough to do it, anyway, to prevent Barry from leaving, and from being unhappy, by any means necessary. But having seen the kindness in this boy’s heart, he was unsettled by that selfishness. Len felt the tell-tale prickle of ice building in his stomach, but he suppressed it with brutal force and looked up to meet Barry’s gaze again.

“I’ll do what I can to keep you here,” he said softly, fully aware that the words were more honest than wise. Barry did not know all the implications, but his eyes widened ever so slightly. For a moment, his hand tightened against Len’s fingers, and then, he was laughing, quietly and freely, and all Len wanted to do was to sit here and look at him for all eternity.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Barry promised, more of a jest than an actual oath, but it settled in Len’s chest like the weight of a warm blanket on a cold night. “Not alone, anyway. I told you once I will do what I can to find a way out of here, for both of us, right?”

Len’s heart lurched, fear and excitement and a tentative, almost painful tendril of hope. He knew it was impossible, when he was the monster Barry wanted to run from: but to let his mind drift through the fantasies of them, together, unburdened by the past, felt like taking a sip of the heaviest wine.

He opened his mouth, still not sure what he was going to say, but Barry interrupted him, with a small, secretive smile and a squeeze of his long fingers against Len’s.

“Don’t say anything. I know you don’t believe it yet, but I’ll find a way. We’ll cure Lisa, and the three of us will go. And we’ll be happy.”

And how cruel was it, that the one time in Len’s life he felt happy was an obstacle on the road to happiness for Barry? The boy had to leave to be content, to lead a life he would be proud of, and Len could not follow.

All he had was this moment, and the time before Barry figured out an escape route, or before Len’s guilt ate through his heart so completely that it would be impossible to hold Barry in it any longer.

“Alright,” he told the boy instead, offering a smile of his own. If their paths to happiness could not be the same… then Len would take the most out of the time they converged.

“I knew you’d see the light,” Barry laughed, and suddenly he was in Len’s space, warm lips pressing against Len’s in a fleeting kiss. Before Len could startle and pull away, Barry’s mouth was gone, and the boy’s eyes suddenly glinted with mischief, so close that Len could see the shadows cast by his eyelashes in the fading daylight.

“But first, I have to find a way around that strategy of yours… how about a game or two?”

A part of Len longed to bridge the distance between them, to tangle his hand in Barry’s hair and learn how to kiss for hours. Chess was such a boring prospect, set against the trembling thoughts of Barry’s lean arms and narrow waist… but with his current tentative hold on his powers, Len had to forego such dangerous ideas until he was sure he would not hurt the boy by accident.

They still had time.

“Sounds like a plan. Bring it on.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I am sorry it took me forever to update. The more this story progresses, the more anxious I am about getting it right so I won't disappoint everyone, plus real life gets in the way of writing... maybe I should take this story less seriously and the writing would flow :'D I'm sorry, I hope there are still a few of you who have not given up on my promises. Have a great new year, and wish me luck with faster updates :'D

Sam never held much love for the old mansion, where every dark corner, every empty hall screamed about the absence of people who used to live there. He was used to his solitude by now, having spent years and years in the mirror world that had the tendency to mess with people’s minds if they spent too long in there with him. Useful, but not conducive to companionship of any kind. But there was something especially lonely about wandering the mirrors of Cold’s home, finding bare traces of the bustling life that once overflowed in those places. Or maybe it never did – maybe it had always been this stifling, this quiet and threatening. What little Lisa had said about her childhood would surely suggest that.  
  
Nevertheless, even the emptiness of the mansion was better than the chaos of the ruin that Mardon called ‘home’. Where Cold’s place was impeccable in its isolation, Mardon’s small country estate seemed to be falling apart at the seams, always a new crack in the walls, always one more pane of glass tumbling out of the ornate windows, as if the house was trying to destroy itself in the loudest, most obvious way possible. Just like its owner, Sam would say: Mardon never seemed to be completely _there_ , from the very beginning, and leisure did not seem to improve his state of mind.

 

“How nice of you to grace us with your presence,” Mardon snapped, no doubt thinking himself witty. That was his greatest fault, as Sam had observed on many previous occasions – Mark thought himself smarter than he truly was, perhaps a fault of a high-class upbringing. Sam could only imagine what sweet lies Mama Mardon used to tell the boy, but they had clearly taken root way too deep.

 

“I can always leave,” Sam remarked coolly; he would not have some thoroughbred idiot treat him like garbage.

 

Or rather, he would not have _another_ one of those: neither Cold nor Lisa ever spoke directly about their past, but Sam, if nothing else, could put two and two together. They had been no farmers, of that he was sure. Cold had that haughty superiority of someone brought up to give orders, and Lisa’s love for pretty things did not come with the hungry eyes of those looking at gold and counting how many suppers it would buy.

 

“Well,” Hartley drawled, once again draped artfully over the dusty sofa – or at least as artfully as one could be on that ratty old thing, “if you two are quite done measuring your… egos.”

 

Of all the pompous brats in his life, Sam probably appreciated Hartley the most. He was just as self-absorbed as the rest of them, much like one would expect of the upper classes, but where Cold became a dictator and Mardon had likely gone insane, Hartley took on the role of a court jester, grotesquely detached from everything, yet retaining a high opinion of himself in general.

  
“I just came to warn you,” Sam shrugged, smirking when he spotted the singe marks dotting the carpet, no doubt courtesy of Cold’s loyal hellhound, “but I see you have already been thoroughly warned not too long ago.”

 

Mardon’s face twisted into a sour grimace and Sam knew he hit a sore spot. Shawna stepped up before he could bask in his momentary victory.

 

“Do you have news for us?”

 

“A meeting,” Sam nodded. “Tomorrow, at dusk. Cold’s place, as usual. Try not to steal any more candy from little children until then.”

 

“We’re _not_ -“ Mardon started, but Sam waved him off, his patience with the warlock already wilting.

 

“I don’t care. Just be ready to face the consequences.”

 

He did not particularly care what happened to Mardon, but crossing Cold could only end badly for the warlock, and Mardon was just crazy enough to bring the fight to Cold in retaliation. And if they killed each other, then who would take care of Lisa? Certainly not Sam, stuck on the other end of the mirror, always observing, never able to touch or to truly help. The knowledge stung, but Sam was not going to allow himself the delusion of power. He had to keep all his cards close, and if that meant navigating the minefield that was warlock relations, then so be it.

 

He would help Lisa in any way he could, whatever the cost.

 

…

 

Barry rubbed at his eyes, weariness weighing down his limbs. The morning had not been a pleasant one, spent fighting off another of Lisa’s seizures. It had not been a major one, but it had required another dose of the stolen potion, and Barry had to wonder how much longer before they would have to resort to theft again. He did not particularly relish the idea, but there was nothing on that particular recipe in the books available in the manor’s library, and Barry would not risk getting the measurements or ingredients wrong and harming the poor girl.

 

Len, as expected, did not take kindly to his sister’s state: even through the half-closed door, Barry could hear the man pacing in the hallway like a caged lion, desperate to help and unable to bring himself to cut into her skin to release the excess magic. Barry had been left alone in her room, with only a knife, a vial, and his own doubts to keep him company until the seizure passed, and she lay motionless in her bed. Len had come in then, and the look of absolute love he had for his sister made Barry’s heart ache. It was not jealousy, for he could understand that there were various kinds of love, and a human heart had an infinite capacity for it. No; the ache in his chest was for Len, trapped in this house for who knew how long, with only his unresponsive sister to accept his love quietly.

 

Barry wished he could do more to show Len that he did not have to bear this burden alone anymore. But life was nothing like the books, and a few kisses shared in the garden did not change as much as Barry might have wanted. It was not like Len pretended it never happened – but whenever Barry reached for him, it was like some invisible force was pulling them apart. The walls Len had built to protect himself could not be torn down in the blink of an eye, but it was disheartening nonetheless to see Len withdraw behind his defenses again and again. Barry wished he could simply tell him that he would wait, as long as it would take Len to grow comfortable with himself, with _them_ , but Barry had never been great at voicing things that were better expressed in a caress or a kiss. He only had his desire to make Len happy, to show him how much he meant to Barry, to make him see that Barry was there to offer support and love.

 

And, if he were to be honest, he had to admit that the thought of love was… intimidating, to say the least. He had spent so long hopelessly loving Iris from afar that he knew little about how things should be said or done with someone who returned his feelings. Especially not with someone unused to affection and so obviously terrified of it. Because that was what Barry read in Len’s blue eyes whenever they touched; how much of that fear was the result of someone, somewhere, telling Len that loving another man was wrong? How much of it had been planted in Len’s heard by Eobard’s betrayal? Until he knew the answers, Barry could do very little except wait for Len’s acceptance and trust, of himself and of Barry both. But he did not know how long he could pretend that it did not hurt to have Len shrink away from every touch, leaning closer only when distracted by something else, as if he had forgotten to fear the bond forming between them for a moment.

 

It was a long time before Len finally left his sister’s side, satisfied that her health would not take a turn for the worse. Barry had been trying to find another speck of wisdom in the books he could now recite by heart, for the lack of anything better to do to calm his thoughts. He looked up from the old texts when the door to the library opened and revealed Len, tired eyes seeking Barry like refuge from his torment. Without thinking, Barry extended a hand towards Len in a silent invitation; for a moment, Len hesitated, but then something in his expression crumpled and he crossed the distance between them in a few quick strides, wrapping his long fingers around Barry’s as he perched on the armrest of Barry’s chair.

 

“She will be fine. We’ll make sure of it,” Barry said, knowing that Len needed reassurance as much as an actual solution to his sister’s plight. A deep sigh escaped from within the confines of Len’s chest, heavy and pained, and he brought Barry’s hand to his lips, brushing a kiss to the bony knuckles. Barry’s heart leapt, both with affection and with guilt for finding comfort in a gesture born of suffering, but he did not pull his hand away when Len covered it with both of his and kept it in his lap.

  
“I don’t know what I would do without you here,” Len admitted quietly, and Barry wondered how much of it was because of Lisa. Would Len have opened his heart even this much, had it not been for his sister’s health? Or would he have kept his feelings locked away, kept himself out of Barry’s reach without giving them as much as a chance? The thought lodged like a black shard in Barry’s heart; he never wanted to build his happiness on someone else’s misfortune, and wasn’t that what happened here, Lisa’s curse opening a door through which he could reach Len?  

 

“Barry?”

 

Len’s voice tore him out of his thoughts and he smiled up at the other man, doing his best not to let his worry show. But Len must have noticed, because he searched Barry’s eyes and tightened his hold on his hand:

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

So many things, but none that could be solved with a few words, Barry thought. He squeezed Len’s fingers in turn and shook his head.

 

“No. I just wish we had more to go on,” he said, closing the book in his lap and running his fingers down the lettering pressed into the leather. Len’s gaze darkened for a moment and Barry felt guilty for using Lisa as a decoy for his own confusion, but it was not like he did not worry about her for real, and he had long understood that she was always on Len’s mind, no matter what.

 

“I’ll look for more books, just let me know if there are specific ones you might need,” he promised quietly, but it was obvious something else was weighing on his mind. Barry turned his body towards Len, shifting as close in his seat as he dared. For a moment, they just sat together, quiet and contemplative, but eventually Len broke the silence first.

 

“Cold’s warlocks are coming tonight,” he spoke, and Barry felt himself freeze, despite Len’s touch rubbing warmth into Barry’s hand. “I need you to stay here. Don’t show yourself until I come for you.”

 

What was it that Cold really wanted from him? Barry could not help but wonder again. Would they kill him? Do something even worse? Barry did not know, and he did not particularly wish to find out. With a small nod, he averted his gaze towards the book in his lap. He knew he would not be able to concentrate, not with the knowledge – and threat – of more warlocks in the manor.

 

One of Len’s hands found its way to Barry’s hair. It was getting long, brown waves falling into Barry’s eyes, and Len brushed them away, the soft touch sending a shiver down Barry’s spine.

 

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promised quietly, and Barry desperately wanted to believe him. But he had caught a glimpse of Cold’s wrath – what could a mere human, a servant, do against him? A memory of Cold’s frozen fury flashed through Barry’s mind and his stomach tightened with fear, for Lens’ safety more than his own. It was Len who had to deal with the warlock, after all; Len who had come home burned and hurting, and who knew what else. Terror seized Barry at the thought of losing Len, being left alone in this house with an evil warlock and a cursed girl, burdened with the responsibility to help her for the sake of the man he loved, the man who would be dead or worse.  

 

“Don’t let anything happen to _you_ , either,” Barry sighed and looked up at Len. “Promise me you’ll try.”

 

An unreadable, conflicted emotion crossed Len’s expression, and to Barry’s surprise, he leaned down to brush his lips against Barry’s cheek.

  
“I promise.”

 

With that, he left Barry alone amidst the centuries-old books, too little to keep his mind away from worry.

 

…

 

“How long will he keep us waiting?” Mardon sneered, his air of fake superiority hanging around him like a poisonous cloud. He was not fooling anyone, though: Sam could see him trembling from across the spacious dining room. The warlock was trying to mask his nerves with arrogance, as so many of his type often did, but Sam knew better. Mardon was not nearly as confident as he liked people to think, and the only one who believed him was Shawna. Maybe.

 

Cold, true to his usual flair for the dramatic, swept into the room just then, keeping any response to Mardon’s question at bay. Cold may have his own unique set of issues, but Sam would give him one thing: he was good at making an entrance.

 

He stalked to the large, round table around which the other warlocks were loosely gathered, his midnight blue cloak billowing around him as he moved. His expression was unreadable as he set his hands on the table’s ornate surface, fingertips barely touching the polished wood where another man would have slammed his hands down to get his point across. Not Cold – even his voice was quiet as he stared Mardon down with those icy eyes.

 

“I hear you have been busy.”

 

One could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed: but as it were, no one in the room seemed to possess any pins, so all Sam could make out through the slight sound distortion of the mirror was the breath Mardon took before opening his mouth, visibly steeling himself for the imminent argument.

 

“Some of us have to be, when our ‘leader’ chooses not to show his face,” Mardon snarled, like the rabid dog he was, and Sam almost rolled his eyes. Goading Cold would not do them any good; sure enough, Cold’s expression darkened and his voice grew even more quiet, which was never a good sign with that man.

 

“Did I not make myself clear when I told you to lie low for a while?”

 

Mardon snorted in answer, turning his back on Cold. His worn heels scraped against the floor as he paced the length of the room like a restless lion (or like an idiot, in Sam’s humble opinion).

 

“It’s been a month, Cold. Why do we all have to wait for your permission?” he spread his arms and looked around, seeking support from the others, but no one was inclined to give it. Neither Rory nor Axel were present, a conscious (and safe) choice on Cold’s part, no doubt. Hartley studied his nails like they were the most interesting thing in the room, and Sam had crossed his arms over his chest and maintained an air of polite disinterest, unwilling to risk his neutrality. Even Shawna’s eyes kept darting to the floor as the poor girl struggled between showing her support of her beloved and using at least a semblance of reason.

 

Cold was the only one smiling.

 

“You don’t,” he said simply, and Mardon’s gaze flickered to him in surprise. “What do you think this is, a shelter for the lonely and the lost? I am not your father, Mark, you are entirely free to make your own choices. Though I wonder,” Cold rubbed his chin in an exaggerated gesture, “what is the big plan? Do you know, or are you simply acting out like a little boy, bored and desperate for attention?”

 

A wise man would shut his trap and ignore the bait. But Sam would never accuse Mardon of wisdom even in his wildest dreams, and true to form, the man’s face flushed an angry shade of red underneath all that unkempt stubble.

 

“You act like you’re so much better than us!” he shrieked, stomping towards Cold but stopping halfway through the room, most likely due to the last shreds of self-preservation. “What gives you the right to look down on us? What do you even know about _anything_ , holed up in here all the time?!”

 

“I know enough not to let myself get caught,” Cold smirked. “But by all means, tell me about the world out there. Tell me what will happen if you keep raiding the borders, weakening our defenses against the north.”

 

“ _Our_ defenses?” Mardon barked out a theatrical laugh. “When did you become such a patriot?”

 

Cold was obviously much better at not letting himself be goaded into a pointless argument, because he merely shrugged, gesturing around the room:

 

“Take a good long look at the people in here, ‘Weather Wizard’. Do you know why they are still alive? Because they have not angered anyone too important just yet.”

 

“And by important, I suppose you mean yourself?” Mardon rolled his eyes. Hartley giggled from his corner:

 

“I take offense at that; my father is a very powerful man and I guarantee that he would very much like to see my cold corpse in the near future.”

 

Cold gave the boy a look that could be either amusement or exasperation, but in the next moment, his smirk was fully focused on Mardon again.

 

“While I’m deeply flattered, I meant those who might attempt to capture warlocks for their own purposes. I wonder what would have happened to you two,” he gestured between Mardon and Shawna, “had we not broken you out? Quite a few warlocks have disappeared over the years. Were they dissected or just executed? Used for entertainment and then disposed of? And who knows what people might do if they needed an advantage in an armed conflict. One that would certainly emerge if the borders are weakened any further,” Cold said with a small smile, hands raised palms-up in a gesture of vague disinterest.

 

For a split second, it looked as though he might convince Mardon to back down. Sam could see the hesitation in Mardon’s eyes – but any voice of reason in that man’s head was no doubt quickly drowned out by a surge of pride.

 

The weather warlock’s brow furrowed, apprehension giving way to anger once more.

  
“That means nothing. You’re just trying to scare us, so that we will do your bidding. But that ends here, do you hear me?!”

 

A faint breeze stirred the air, ruffling Shawna’s hair. The sky darkened behind the tall windows; Shawna stepped forward, Mardon’s name on her lips and a worried look in her eyes. But she was too late – or Mardon was too deep in the grave he has dug for himself. The breeze quickly turned to a frosty gale, rushing toward Cold-

 

-and all of a sudden, Mardon’s arms were covered in a thick layer of ice, spreading up his wrists, wrapping around his forearms and elbows. The wind died down before Sam could as much as try to think about what to do. Dark clouds swirled in the sky outside, heavy and ominous, but without his hands, Mardon could do little to direct his powers. Cold stalked forward, like a wolf circling its prey, slowly, deliberately, with a feral smirk on his face that chilled Sam to the bone. Shawna cried out and lurched forward, no doubt trying to protect her lover, but Cold waved a hand and a web of ice wrapped around her eyes. She clawed at the frozen crystals obscuring her vision, cursing loudly, but Cold barely spared a glance her way.

  
“ _Something_ certainly ends here,” his breath materialized in a frosty haze, little crystals of snow catching on Mardon’s frozen shoulders when Cold leaned close. Sam could not see his face, but the threat lacing the air was crystal clear. Breathing became a chore, as if lungs had trouble expanding against the raw power emanating from Cold, despite the barriers of the mirror world. Cold’s fingers, deft and playful, traced the edges of the ice keeping Mardon from moving, and the crystals crackled to life, licking up Mardon’s bare neck, making the man hiss in pain. Sam could see in Mardon’s eyes that he was counting out his last seconds, bracing for the inevitable finishing blow. Then, Cold spoke again.

 

“Your childish insolence, or this partnership. I recommend you think about it while you cool your head.”

 

He twisted around, turning his back on Mardon like he hardly considered the Weather Wizard a threat. With a wave of his hand, ice fell from Shawna’s eyes, clinking against the stone floor, and she rushed forward as if she had been frozen to the ground before. By fear more than by Cold’s powers, Sam was sure of that. She wrapped her arms around Mardon and they disappeared in a puff of dark smoke, leaving Hartley to awkwardly pull himself to his feet and walk out, casting nervous glances Cold’s way.

 

And Cold stood there without a word, wearing his quiet, frosty anger like regalia, an uncrowned king of them all. In that moment, Sam remembered, to his very core, how powerful Cold truly was.

 

But more than that power, he saw Cold stand alone, without the only warlock who had ever been truly loyal to him at his side. Without Rory, Cold was just one man, no matter how strong or how vicious. A lone wolf could always be killed by its prey if the deer wanted to live badly enough. And a lone wolf like Cold, who had lost half his teeth somewhere along the line… Sam did not know for sure what happened that Cold let Mardon walk away. Perhaps he was tired of killing, or he had given some foolhardy promise to that boy. Either way, it felt like the promise Sam lived for, the promise he had given Lisa to help break her curse, was slipping out of his grasp with every moment Cold spent not searching for the cure.

 

“Keep an eye on them,” Cold barked his way, and Sam nodded, unwilling to turn the warlock’s rage on himself. But who was it that truly needed direction, who needed someone to watch over them? Mardon was a fool, and a volatile one at that, but he itched to _do_ something, and Sam could feel that itch slowly burn under his own skin now.

 

He let the mirror haze over without another word.

 

……

 

Barry did not know how long he had spent staring out of the library’s windows. The glass was old and wrinkled, distorting the world beyond to little more than colorful smudges, but Barry would not have paid attention to the swaying of the trees even if he could see them clearly. Tension had taken over the usual quiet of the room, prickling in goosebumps over Barry’s skin when he dared to think about the people who were just a few feet, a few fragile doors away.

 

Were they still people, he wondered, after everything they had done, everything they were about to do? Was there a shard of humanity left in someone like Cold, who took without a second thought, who destroyed homes and lives without remorse or care? Or was Barry just being naïve, thinking that humanity alone could prevent the worst of crimes? He had seen enough men pass through his father’s hands, enough women, hurt by that same belief, by someone who by all accounts should have been human. The young man in Barry, the one who still believed with all his heart that people were mostly good, wanted to look for those shards of humanity and goodness in those who seemingly dedicated their lives to trading pain for gain. The scientist in him wondered how far warlocks might have strayed from ordinary humans – how did they come to be and what made them tick? Did they still bleed and die like people, could they feel pain or pleasure, sadness or joy? For a few moments, Barry entertained himself with the thought of asking Cold the next time the warlock showed his face, but it would be futile: Barry was a mere trophy, or a tool in some nefarious scheme, and the warlock would have no reason to reveal his secrets – his weaknesses – to a simple young scholar.

 

He snapped out of his thoughts when the door to the library creaked open, and Barry rushed forward to meet Len.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked immediately, worry tinting his words. Len’s shoulders drooped and his gaze felt heavy; Barry was reminded of his time at Duke Harrison’s court, watching soldiers march home from a battle. The same weariness now settled around Len like a shadow, and Barry could not help but reach for the older man, run his hands up Len’s arms and clasp his shoulders in a show of support and care.

 

For a long moment, Len simply looked at him, and Barry had the strange, chilling feeling that Len was trying to soak up the sight of him like a cure for whatever was poisoning his soul. Barry could not imagine what cruelty had he endured at the hands of the warlocks, what disgusting plans had he listened to, but Barry did not wish to know. He simply took that last step forward and wrapped his arms around Len, until the stiffness leaked out of the man’s posture and he relaxed into the embrace, resting his arms around Barry’s waist.

  
They stood still in the library, once again a quiet refuge, as if the warlocks’ presence had been draining the last remnants of life from this lonely place. When Barry’s fingers, as always unable to keep still, began tracing lines over Len’s shoulder and the nape of his neck, Len shifted on his feet but did not pull away, and Barry counted that as a victory.

 

……

 

Mardon looked pretty green around the gills when he stumbled through the creaking door. Shawna’s powers could do that to a man, Sam knew, and she must have wanted to get Mardon home as soon as possible. The frostbite marks on his neck, where Cold’s ice had reached, were nothing but faint red spots by now, but Mardon still sank into the old, dusty sofa like a sack of potatoes, heaving a sigh of relief.

 

And yet, when he opened his eyes, he did not look like a man scared onto the right path – more like someone enraged into choosing the wrong one, over and over again.

 

But what was right and wrong? Sam certainly did not know, and he was beginning to think that neither did Cold.

 

“He will pay for this,” Mardon snarled, and it was difficult to tell whether he meant to save his wounded pride by an abstract proclamation of some future revenge, or a plan for that revenge was already hatching in his head.

 

Fortunately, it was Shawna who asked first, a healthy dose of skepticism coloring her words.

 

“How? Maybe we _should_ take a break. Lie low, like Cold said.”

 

“Cold has forgotten our purpose,” Mark snapped at her; she flinched, but did not protest any further. Sam crossed his arms over his chest.

 

“What purpose?” he smirked – he did not recall ever seeing Mardon do anything that could be considered working towards a specific goal. The man was a loose cannon, not as much as Axel, whose only purpose in life was clearly to wreak havoc and have fun with it… but Mardon was no more than a petty thief with some powers, as far as Sam was concerned.

 

Sam, however… he remembered Lisa once again and his smirk fell. What was _his_ purpose, without people who would help him achieve what he had to do? What could he accomplish if the one man who was supposed to focus on Lisa just as much could not get his eyes off some village boy? Ever since Barry had turned up, Cold seemed to have abandoned his quest for the pieces of Lisa’s soul, and after that last one, she could hardly even show herself, appearing thin and translucent where she once used to be vibrant and bright. Who knew how much she had to suffer, whether her consciousness was still around even when she was unable to talk to Sam, each of them trapped in a whole another world.

 

No, he could not let her suffer one day longer than absolutely necessary, and if he had to remove any _distractions_ from the equation, then so be it. Cold had to be reminded what was at stake… and how it felt to be helpless while worrying about a loved one.

 

“Perhaps I could help,” Sam said quietly, his voice wavering with hesitation around the first word, but growing sharp with determination at the last one. A plan was beginning to form in his mind. If he played his cards right, he could do what he had to do without endangering Lisa _or_ his position in Cold’s house. He did not much care about Mardon’s fate: Cold might not tolerate much more disobedience from the weather warlock, but Mardon could certainly do with one more lesson in humility. With the way Cold was behaving lately, it was highly unlikely that he would actually kill the other warlock… and even if he did, choosing between Lisa’s life and Mardon’s would always be easy for Sam.

 

When Mardon’s gaze, full of suspicion, landed on the mirror’s surface, Sam knew he could not back down now. Not if he wanted to help Lisa, in any way he could.

 

“Now, listen and do exactly as I say…”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my [tumblr.](http://pheuthe.tumblr.com/) Come talk to me whenever <3 Any comments, ideas, corrections etc. are greatly appreciated.


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